Will I become we?
Note to readers: We all could do with a little light right now. While the beginning may read dark, I promise it’s filled with joy. My hope is it brings some joy to you.
Two weeks ago I experienced my first migraine in 5 years.
At first I was confused. I’d checked all the boxes that usually keep me healthy — a good night’s sleep, a balanced meal, regular exercise. “Why was my body feeling so stressed?” I wondered.
It was only after the headache cleared that I made the connection. San Francisco was preparing for its first shelter-in-place, and people were (rightfully) FREAKING OUT.
The collective angst and fear was overwhelming, and my body shut down.
“We feel the world has changed, and it has… we’re grieving. Collectively. And we’re not used to this kind of collective grief.” — David Kessler
Over the coming weeks, the feelings continued in intense waves. Sometimes I felt sick, other times I slept 12 hours at a time. And sometimes even after sleeping 12 hours, all I could muster was cuddling on the couch with tea.
Yet unlike the many healthcare and essential service workers on the front lines, I didn’t think of myself as under extreme stress. What’s more, I had my health, a roof over my head, and a stable job. I was fortunate by every account, and I knew it. So what was I feeling?
I came across a Harvard Business Review interview with David Kessler, the world’s foremost expert on grief. In it, Kessler describes what has been weighing so heavily on society, and in his explanation I saw what was weighing on me:
“We feel the world has changed, and it has. We know this is temporary, but it doesn’t feel that way, and we realize things will be different… The loss of normalcy; the fear of economic toll; the loss of connection. This is hitting us and we’re grieving. Collectively. We are not used to this kind of collective grief.” — David Kessler, HBR
Collective grief.
Like a gravity blanket but far less fun, grief had been weighing on me for weeks.
And yet with so much lingering uncertainty, it feels unsafe to take the grief blanket off. Instead, we go about our days carrying this enormous weight.
(While my day consists of traveling 12 feet from bedroom to living room, no amount of healthy habits can ease the stress of such emotional weight.)
“We’re also feeling anticipatory grief. Anticipatory grief is that feeling we get about what the future holds when we’re uncertain… There’s something bad out there. With a virus, this kind of grief is so confusing. Our primitive mind knows something bad is happening, but you can’t see it. — David Kessler, HBR
There’s something else we’re grieving. It’s a lesser threat to our physical survival, but equally overwhelming:
The loss of control.
As a generation, we’ve been able to “solve” most challenges. We’ve watched the unknown threats of cancer or major natural disasters get slowly contained by subject matter experts, philanthropists and (occasionally) political leaders.
We are forced to reconnect with the fragility of the global order, and with our own mortality.
But as we battle this virus, one thing is abundantly clear: there is a lot we don’t know.
Not knowing — not being able to see, understand or treat an existential threat — creates intense vulnerability.
I’ve heard people harken this period to 9/11, or the days John F Kennedy or Martin Luther King were killed. Everyone remembers where they were in that moment. And in that moment, we were forced to reconnect with the fragility of the global order, and with our own mortality.
As we address the threat of this pandemic to our loved ones, and those populations most at risk such as the elderly and immunocompromised, we’re also subconsciously processing the threat to our sense of self. To our identity as independent beings. Resilient. Able to fight any danger.
Not only is this exhausting, it’s also really scary.
You don’t have to experience grief, but you can only avoid it by avoiding love. Love and grief are inextricably linked. — David Kessler, Finding Meaning
But it’s not all bad.
What’s unique about this crisis that is forcing us to grieve so many things is: it’s an “us”.
One of the sacred silver linings of this traumatic time is the emergence of “we”.
This is not an “I” situation. Rather, it’s a “we”.
Throughout the traumatic events of modern history, rarely has there been a moment that connected people across the globe.
The events of 9/11 were an “us” vs. “them”. The loss of JFK or MLK was an American loss. Even global events like the World Wars or major earthquakes in Japan, Haiti or Indonesia created a dynamic of “helpers” and “helped.”
One of the sacred silver linings of this traumatic time is the emergence of “we”.
Whether online or in person, our society is knitting itself together.
And i’m not just talking about the thousands of people and companies hand sewing personal protective equipment for our heroes on the front lines.
I’m talking about people, reaching out to other people they have passed namelessly for years.
Be the light.
Yesterday on my walk to the grocery store, I saw an older neighbor waiting outside his garage. Keeping a healthy distance, I slowed and made eye contact. He smiled, I smiled back. Unspoken permission to connect. I asked if he needed anything, and he said he was fine and joked about waiting for his wife to get on her shoes. We smiled again, our goodbye, and I carried on.
It was a simple moment. Yet in the over 2,000 times I’ve passed that man’s house, it was this day we chose to connect.
My family now holds a weekly online game night. My team has a virtual coffee chat every few days. My partner and I are eating three daily meals together. That’s more time spent with each person in the past week than I had spent with them collectively in 2020.
Do these moments make it all worth it? Goodness no. But they do lift me up.
Because within them is a reminder:
We — the most inclusive we in modern history — are capable of coexisting. What’s more, we are capable of galvanizing around a common goal. We are capable of making individual sacrifices for the greater good.
As I take my daily (solitary) walk, I pass note after note — taped to front doors, painted on sidewalks, hung from trees.
From the mouth of babes, they call out:
