A long thought on my post-pandemic self.

We lost a couple of really, really good friends about one year before the pandemic started, through a trauma-induced series of very unfortunate events. In a way, the pandemic made this both easier and harder to deal with, for a variety of reasons.

And we settled into the city we moved to three years ago. And my kids transferred schools. And I transitioned into a new job in a healthy environment (after three back-to-back unhealthy environments). And all kinds of other things happened. Because it has been two entire years of the COVID era (which is what we’re supposed to call this now, I’m told). As I calculate all of the external changes, it seems like a lifetime.

And as I calculate my own personal internal changes, I arrive at the inevitable conclusion of who I am now, which feels like an entirely different person.

I can’t lay claim to that. I’m pretty sure the COVID era has changed (and will continue to change) all of us. But when I try to articulate that change, in my mind I keep coming back to this phrase: It’s possible I just don’t care anymore.

To be clear: It’s not that I don’t care about you - because of course I care about you, as my fellow human neighbor on the planet.

But it’s possible I just don’t care anymore whether you care about me. Because it’s possible you just don’t. And I can’t make you care about me (or, so says Bonnie Raitt). 

I don’t care about a lot things anymore, because a huge part of all of this is realizing how few things really matter, am I right? And the ambiguity of all of this - the ever-changing rules and guidelines, the unknown future on the horizon, the ups and downs of thinking it might be over and then wondering if it will ever be over - has left me decidedly comfortable with ambiguity. I don’t care if you don’t like me. I don’t care if you think I’m going to hell because of what I believe or because I got a vaccine or wear a mask or voted blue. I don’t care if you draw any kind of conclusions about who I am or how I am based on any of this or anything you don’t really know about me. I just don’t care anymore. It’s possible I just don’t care anymore.

Most of us (if not all of us) have had to adjust to this kind of thinking, because, let’s face it, caring about others and about the greater good is something society as a whole has not been doing well in all of this. We’ve had to make choices for ourselves and our loved ones based on what we feel is the right thing to do. It’s all a part of this pandemic: Being forced into having agency over myself and my choices, and what I am responsible for and what I am definitely not (nor could I possibly ever be) responsible for. It’s always something I’ve been aware of, but have never really done a good job of practicing until now.

I am generally a haunted person, who carries ghosts of joy and lament with me always. It’s who I am. I like to think I have a savant-like memory, fueled by about 35 years’ worth of diaries and journals which I’ve digitized and are now at my fingertips with a cloud journaling app. Although, if you believe in the science of memory (like this and this and this), then it’s possible I only carry with me my version of a savant-like memory.

Either way, I’ve sat for two years in my house and processed pain and joy in ways that I was previously unable to. I’ve sifted through adolescent strife and toxic jobs and lost friendships and have been able to make peace with the universal dichotomy that experiences are real, no matter how they end, and we can only carry with us the things that really matter.

We choose the things we carry. I’ve sifted through adolescence and pulled out moments of laughing in a hallway with my friends and a walk in the snow to talk about very important teenager-y things and hugs in driveways and laughter-induced tears and hand-holding in movie theaters and a lifelong friendship that changed my life. 

I’ve sifted through toxic jobs and pulled out moments of clarity and dance parties in offices and bursts of singing and inside jokes that were carried on way too long. I’ve carried with me conversations with people who have lifted me up and believed in me and reminded me that I’m valuable, despite any toxicity surrounding me.

And I’ve sifted through broken friendships and pulled out evenings of laughter and glances across tables and one-a.m. conversations full of vulnerability and authenticity; memories of meaningful conversations and organic relationship that grew from people who really just liked each other. 

And I’ve reminded myself that, however it all ended, it was real.

These moments are real, and they are mine to carry. I hesitate to wrap it all up in a neat little bow and say that I’m choosing to ignore the pain and hurt of everything, because that’s not the case. Sometimes words wound and when we say things that we can’t take back, it’s hard to look at what existed before the words were flung and recognize it for the reality that it was.

But it’s a dichotomy that exists, and a dichotomy that involves a fair amount of ambiguity, much like the entire world has held lately. This pandemic isn’t over - who knows when it will be over. But it has been two entire years of sifting through my things, and you (maybe? probably?) sifting through your things and making peace with ambiguity. I’m choosing to carry with me the things that make me smile. Because it’s possible I just don’t care about any of the other things anymore.

One of my favorite books of all-time is The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, about a stuffed/china rabbit who makes his way through a series of owners and ends up in an antique store awaiting his next (and possibly final) owner to see value in him. I won’t give away the ending, but Edward is ragged and worn in the end, and he knows it’s because he’s been loved. “I have already been loved,” he says. “I have been loved by a girl named Abilene. I have been loved by a fisherman and his wife and a hobo and his dog. I have been loved by a boy who played the harmonica and by a girl who died. Don’t talk to me about love,” he says. “I have known love.”

The things I carry cannot be taken away. I’m going to pack them up and keep them safe and close, because this is a life - this is all it is. Taking the joys and making the best life possible out of all the good things. The COVID era has allowed me to sift, and pack a trunk of memories and joy to take what I can from my minuscule time on this earth - even if someone is still mad at me - even if something remains unresolved - even if the world outside is burning and crumbling. These moments that I recall - that I have written about - that live on in my mind and heart - they are mine, to carry with me and do whatever I want. The memories are real. I will recall them and my heart will swell and I will smile. What I have learned - the only thing I have maybe learned in all of this - is that everything is ambiguous - there are maybe no lessons to be learned, beyond that it’s our job here to just take the best and carry on. 

Even the isolation of a pandemic can’t take away what I know was real. However any of it ended and however any of this ends, I have been loved.