District of Pods

We asked you about how you’re liking pod life this pandemic summer. You told us so, so much.

I recently rewatched the movie Castaway: you know, Tom Hanks’ journey into the abyss after he suddenly finds himself adrift and completely isolated from everyone he knows. At some point in his prolonged island exile, he forms a deep attachment to a blood-stained volleyball, Wilson, who becomes his sole confidante and crude proxy for human connection. You watch as he cycles through the full spectrum of emotion with this volleyball because he just needs someone, some thing, rather, to bear witness to the minutiae of his days.

I thought I appreciated the movie’s poignant message about loneliness when I first watched it years ago, but now, I really get it.

When lockdown began in March, I figured I’d bear the isolation stoically, virtuously crossing off the days on my quarantine prison calendar. I even briefly indulged in the delusion, apparently shared by many, that a little time on my own without the distractions of my entire social life would transform me into a painfully well-read, trilingual pianist, with abs, maybe! Reader, none of that happened. Now it seems we’ve all collectively moved past those heady early days happily making our own bread to just straight up assembling our own panic rooms at the prospect of an endless quarantine.

As intrinsically social animals, humans just aren’t designed for the kind of extended, no end in sight, isolation measures seemingly required of us to keep this virus in check. Zoom-mediated socializing seems to be on the wane because we’ve finally admitted it’s kind of awful. And as far as public health pitches go, “give up everyone you care about and embrace long nights anthropomorphizing your succulent until there’s a vaccine” seems destined to fail.

There is a solution. Enter the pod: a closed network of households who agree to limit all of their non-distanced, maskless interactions to each other.

Quarantine pods can be a sensible alternative to the gold star “abstinence” recommendation of complete social isolation. Many other countries, ones with coherent public health messaging (so, not us), have explicitly embraced some form of quarantine teaming as a straightforward, easily understood harm reduction strategy that allows people to socialize while staying sane through lengthy lockdowns.

And while DC’s own public health guidance has been far more opaque on the subject of pods, it hasn’t stopped you all from trying it out for yourselves.

We asked readers how they’re banding together (or not) to get through this “unprecedented time.”

Sex. Lies. Game night betrayals. These are your pod stories.

To Pod or Not to Pod…

Most of you pod. The majority (72%) of survey respondents reported being part of an established pod situation, defined as one or more households agreeing to socialize with each other in close proximity and without masks, while distancing from everyone outside the pod. Or, as one reader put it, “social monogamy.”

Pod sizes varied, but most (78.6%) reported linking up with 1–3 other households, while a handful seemed to be going HAM with sprawling pods of six or more households in varying configurations.

“My pod is based on a chain of polyamorous relationships. It includes 6 people total, but each person in the pod only sees 2 other people in it. We’re very spread out — in DC, Baltimore, and Columbia — so some members of the pod are doing a lot of driving.”

Though choosing a pod seems to imply exclusivity, some make no such commitments and serve no pod masters:

“Some people come in and out of my pod, it changes based on behavior of the members. Sometimes we need a 2 week break to reestablish safety. So far just one other person remains consistent.”

Reasons for opting out of the pod experience varied. Some are solo by choice: eschewing the pod experience until they can find the right pod mates. Others expressed skepticism that anyone could really be trusted to follow through on social-distancing best practices.

“It feels like everyone is in at least one informal pod and is lying to everyone else by omission.”

A cynical take, but perhaps not altogether unfounded. What struck me early on was the lack of shared understanding or perception of risk. I knew acquaintances who were hunkering down in their doomsday bunkers while others were still optimistically planning quick vacations out of town. Meanwhile, after months inside doom scrolling through pandemic stats and grim shop talk in my group chat of fellow public health nerds, I felt like I was rapidly turning into the crazy old guy from Friday the 13th trying to warn the youth of danger ahead. Like, did you even read that terrifying Imperial College London paper on Covid outcomes, bro?!

Who’s In, and Who’s Out

By and large, it seems to be about who you know, who you can trust, and…well, who’s nearby.

Most readers evaluated potential additions to their pod on the basis of their relationship to other members, adherence to safety rules, and proximity, in that order.

A few observations from the responses we received:

Upending some of my assumptions, very few people reported selecting for pod mates to fulfill some utilitarian purpose: nanny, cook, ad hoc therapist, etc. In the absence of a functioning pandemic social safety net, it wouldn’t have surprised me to see a dash of Depression era “just looking for a humble man with a few hectares of good land” type practicality when scouting for pod members. But although many of your pods do feature mutually supportive arrangements to share chores, navigate childcare, run errands, most didn’t form explicitly for these reasons.

Though, shout out to this amazing pod for coalescing around a shared appreciation for clean clothing:

“Our pod sort of formed primarily around the fact one person has a laundry in-unit.”

Rise of the quarantine rando. The clear preference for adding people who already have ties to existing members of the pod means some of you have at least one person you don’t really know, though very likely more. Usually this person is linked through a friend, roommate, or family member, but sometimes even more distant connections: a second cousin, your roommate’s produce guy, their reiki healer.

“This was a pod not by choice but by necessity- I wouldn’t choose to be in a pod with one of my roommates’ boyfriend if I didn’t have to because he is not as cautious as the rest of the pod.”

The presence of the quarantine pod rando makes the kind of explicit and necessary conversations around safety and risk feel extra awkward and invasive, leaving many to avoid them altogether. But we ask, how can you truly feel at peace with your pod when you’re constantly monitoring the rogue element?

The great couples vs. singletons divide. Though the vast majority of you are officially podded up and living with either a partner, roommates, or family, I’m curious about those living alone and pod-less. One thing that came through over and over again in the responses was the perception that most pods were just couples choosing to link up with other couples, to the exclusion of all others. And well, that’s fair. A surprisingly high number of people reported pods composed almost exclusively of couples (or ex-couples), reinforcing the idea of a pandemic Noah’s arc that leaves singles adrift.

“Seems like pods consist mostly of couples podding-up with other couples. So, we single folks w/o roommates are getting left out… which sucks, because we’re already very much on our own in this thing. #feelsbadman”

“I feel like the person left out of the pods for a variety of reasons with my friends — and it’s lonely and I feel really disconnected from my communities. I was relatively new to DC when the pandemic started, and though I have good friends, I knew I would be excluded from pods.”

“I don’t love that the pod is based around romantic relationships — I have important friendships too! It sucks that the pandemic has forced us to rank-order the people in our lives.”

We didn’t ask but one does wonder about the dynamics within all these pods of other couples. Does it play out like an interminable double or triple date? What do you do if the socially sanctioned quarantine plus one is a dud? As a friend once said to me solemnly, “it’s very rare to like both halves of a couple equally.” The pandemic seems to force such tragic compromises: if someone you want in the pod comes as a package deal, perhaps you might be compelled to make room for someone you wouldn’t otherwise find pod worthy.

The safety dance. Much of the existing guidance on assembling a quarantine pod recommends selecting other households with similar levels of risk tolerance and, more importantly, who you can trust to respect community pod agreements. As one public health expert notes: “You’re only as safe as the group member least likely to stick to the rules .”

If the harmony of these delicate pod ecosystems depends on mutually trusting relationships and open communication, how then to handle a pod member who might be the corona Trojan horse that puts the entire group at risk?

“We were considering adding another couple to our pod, had had all the conversations and made the initial hang out plans and then we found out they’d lied to us about how careful they were being…they had hosted a game night with 10 people and no rules. We were surprised and hurt that they would choose to withhold that info, potentially putting us at risk. Plans cancelled and friendship is kind of awkward now.”

Personality: People’s personalities and shared interests also get honorable mentions as priority considerations in forming one’s pod. I wonder, though, how these too might link back to safety concerns when making assessments of potential pod members. I have one acquaintance that I suspect has well over a dozen people in their pod because every time I chat with them, they mention the places they’ve gone, the new people they’ve interacted with, and by the time they’re through, Mambo №5 is fully playing in my head. Like damn son, is there anyone you’re not seeing?

“Sometimes you wish there were different people in your pod. Spending this much time with a small group of people you really learn the “challenges” of some people’s personalities.”

“I formed a pod with one other person living alone, but we didn’t know each other well beforehand and it turns out she sucks. It was really awkward telling her it wasn’t working for me.”

Sexual healing. Some pods seem entirely composed of either current flames or exes, veering intriguingly into Fleetwood Mac circa Rumours territory. We look forward to your tortured pod breakup albums!

“This pod is my real-life Big Brother experience! At one point, out of the 10 people in the pod, 8 people were hooking up with each other. (2 of the pairs are pre-Covid couples). “

“Our core pod consists of three 20-somethings who all live alone. Two of us have been quasi-secretly hooking up. It hasn’t caused any problems yet, but I’m sure the longer we wait for a vaccine the more potentially-chaotic this will be. Curious if other pods have had this issue?”

You ask…Does everyone in the pod know? Does anyone care? Yes, everyone knows, and feels a little bit weird about it. Though, to be fair, the NYC Health Dept.’s guide to pandemic sex (still the gold standard), seems down: “…after yourself, the next safest partner is someone you live with.”

Pod-sclusivity. The act of podding seems to, by definition, result in some degree of exclusion. Some have bemoaned that the pandemic is forcing us to create a hierarchy of our relationships. Others, however, seem content to dedicate themselves to a select few, while letting their quarantine pod serve as the catalyst to finally kill off weaker social ties and abandon tiresome acquaintances.

“Honestly has been better than a normal summer — have had to be really intentional about who I see and what we do, and that’s made for more time spent with the people I care about and less time spent with friends who aren’t as close.”

Unfortunately there doesn’t appear to be an etiquette guide on the delicate social maneuvering required when trying to ask someone to join your pod, or, alternatively, finding a way to let them down gently.

“If you decide to try a pod with another family, brace yourself for some awkward conversations. First, the other family might not want to pod with you or has podded with someone else. It’s like high school prom all over again.”

Reflections on the Pod Experience

There is no unified opinion on pods, but the responses do seem to conform to the Anna Karenina principle: all happy pods are alike; but each unhappy pod is unhappy in its own way. In reviewing your pod musings, a few themes emerged:

May we have some rules…please?

Though “strict adherence to the rules” topped the list of criteria for pod inclusion, most of you aren’t drafting iron-clad pre-podding agreements with explicit rules on safety. The majority reported either informal agreements with rules being made and enforced ad hoc or no discussion of ground rules at all prior to podding up. And the lack of common understanding or formal agreement on what everyone should be doing is a huge source of anxiety and conflict.

“Our pod isn’t “closed.” My two people see a few other people who should technically be counted in my pod. This really stresses me out but I know my two friends are responsible so I’m assuming that the other people they see are also being responsible.”

Some of this anxiety seems rooted in the polarizing and often incongruous public health guidance we’ve received to date. In the absence of a unified national strategy to stamp out the virus, people, but especially Americans, use shaming as a way to feel in control even though it’s often counterproductive in encouraging behavior change in others. As writer Ed Yong, the Atlantic’s resident Covid doomsayer, notes: “Pushing for universal health care is harder than shaming an unmasked stranger. Fixing systemic problems is more difficult than spewing moralism, and Americans gravitated toward the latter.”

But there’s growing evidence that quarantine pods are in fact more effective at limiting the spread of the virus than any other method of restricting one’s social network, as long as people “keep it exclusive, keep it small.” It’s also worth noting that though our own national pandemic response to date has been an utter shitshow, some American cities like Berkeley, for example, have fully embraced the podding strategy, even including explicit guidance on pod formation in their public health orders.

Many of you expressed regret that rules hadn’t been formalized or agreed upon early in the game, before you were forced to speculate wildly about the social activity of your more freewheeling podmates. Though a few reported ejecting pod members for being too lax about safety, a great many more opt for a less direct approach: either staying silent about misgivings or only taking action when there’s evidence of a particularly egregious pod transgression.

“The prevalence of group houses makes it hard to form a true pod. One of my pod members has housemates, and I have no idea who *they’re* socializing with, but…I just ignore it, because the alternative is no pod.”

“We should have decided rules up front — what ended up happening was that one household made all the rules (and effectively vetoed rules proposed by more risk-averse members of the pod) and the pod dissolved over that”

To avoid painful truth and reconciliation pod tribunals, experts recommend talking through as many scenarios as possible to assess everyone’s comfort level. If you’re a homebody and your pod mate is Where’s Waldo-ing all over town, it’s probably best to know that early on.

Another common question in the responses was how to handle collective decision making within the pod when there’s seemingly an infinite number of ad hoc situations to navigate: travel, office reopenings, dating, dinner parties, obligation outings with extended family, etc.. Sometimes there’s a little lead time to formulate a plan for these kinds of situations: one friend of mine distributed a detailed email with do’s and don’ts to her other pod mates before their upcoming beach vacation. And that actually seemed to go over pretty well! But for those averse to putting down rules in writing (and that appears to be most of you), one workaround is defaulting to the preferred safety precautions of the most risk-averse member of the pod and making some sacrifices.

“The hardest thing is saying no to other friends because we have to maintain the safety of the pod. It feels really selfish but, at the same time, is the only thing that is keeping me sane right now. So it means lots of hard conversations as a pod and not getting to do things I would like to do. Like I didn’t get my hair cut when salons reopened because a member of the pod wasn’t comfortable with it.”

People want the pod.

Despite the challenges, people were mostly quite enthusiastic about their pod experience, seeing their value even beyond the pandemic. Pods have served to fast track major life events; engagements, moving in with a partner, buying conjoined pod condos (really!). Many of you note that being part of a pod has provided a much needed sense of community that makes even the more mundane aspects of quarantine life joyful and enriching.

Though some pods will dissolve, the majority of you seem ready to commit to your podmates forever, or at least until there’s a vaccine.

“This is an extreme version of the intentional community experience. It’s been exhausting and frustrating at times, but overall a confirmation that living with people (even people you didn’t choose or particularly love) can bring joy, laughter and a sense of belonging to these challenging times.”

The looming mental health crisis from all this isolation is no small matter; data shows that the kids (by which I mean, nearly everyone) are not all right. Pandemic stressors like prolonged isolation can also manifest in an array of physical ailments: loss of sleep, eczema, hair loss. Indeed, in evaluating the benefits of podding up, many readers noted over and over again how essential their pods have been to preserving their mental health.

“One pod friend described quarantine as drowning, and the pod hangout as a moment when the sun is shining, the waves stop crashing, and you can finally catch your breath.”

At the end of Castaway, Tom Hanks is eventually rescued only to find that in his absence, his old world is gone. His friends don’t understand him anymore, his former love, Helen Hunt, has moved on (some might say with a shocking quickness, but I digress), and his return to society is marked by the tragic loss of his one constant during exile, Wilson, the only witness to an exceptionally bizarre and lonely chapter in his life.

Six months into lockdown and whatever phase of the pandemic we’re in currently (waxing? gibbous?), I finally committed to a pod of my own. Despite my earlier reservations, it’s dawning on me that even as the pandemic is making us all stressed, depressed, and probably also a little socially awkward. (something else to look forward to on the other side!), we can still make conscientious choices to survive without turning into Boo Radley until a vaccine materializes. As pandemic fatigue sets in, there is still so much uncertainty; the sense that the time is past for us to contain the virus and return to the way we were. Maybe all we can do is to cling to our pods and face our new world together. Once more, unto the breach, dear friends.