Life moved forward, but did we?
Five Years Later: What We Lost, What We Learned, and What Still Lingers
This week marked five years since the first stay-at-home order was issued here in the U.S. When I reflect on those first few weeks of lockdowns, I think of that epic speech from the movie Independence Day—with Bill Pullman as president reminding us that our petty differences no longer matter because all of humanity now has a common goal: survival. It’s hard to think of another event that impacted every person on Earth in such a profound way. And I suspect it will take a generation to fully unpack what it’s done to us.
This morning, on my drive home from school drop offs, radio show hosts were brainstorming ways to annually commemorate the start of the pandemic. Some suggestions were funny (March 11: the day we all disinfect our groceries again), others were heartfelt (spend time with the person you missed most during lockdowns). It got me thinking about the ways—big and small—that I’ve personally changed.
I used to be a hugger. Maybe it’s my Southern roots, but pre-2020, I greeted friends and family without hesitation, arms wide open. Now, my default is a warm hello from a few feet away unless the other person makes the first move. It's an unconscious hesitation, a new awareness of personal space and not wanting to make the other person uncomfortable. The same goes for sharing drinks or coughing in public—I still catch myself stifling a cough, fearing the side-eye.
But those are the small things. The bigger, lasting impacts? We’re still sorting through them. When I look at pictures from 2019, my husband and I look like we’ve aged ten years instead of five. In a broader sense, no one I know feels like they ever truly recovered from the physical, mental, and emotional toll this has played on all of us. I can’t think of a single friend whose job is better than it was before. Work may be more flexible, but it often feels less fulfilling. The pandemic put capitalism on steroids, leaving even long-time employees feeling disposable. People aren’t just burned out—they're disillusioned.
As an elder millennial, or Xennial, I thought we’d escape the classic mid-life crisis. A lot of us did things differently than our parents. We married later, had kids later, we prioritized personal growth, and therapy. We assumed we had our Quarter Life Crisis so we didn’t have to have one at mid life. That was my thinking anyway. Yet here most of us are, deep in the mid-life happiness dip like the generations before us. But instead of sports cars or dramatic career pivots, for a lot of us, our crisis looks like trying to balance raising young kids while caring for aging parents or relatives, while working jobs that demand more for less, while often dealing with our own health issues as a result of aging and/or the stress of all the above.
Two incomes are necessary due to the inflation the pandemic fueled, yet nothing in our system is set up to support parents working full time. Come February, we have to plan and scramble to afford all-day summer camps just to keep our jobs to pay for the camps. Many of us spend our days staring at screens, rarely interacting with anyone outside our families.
Would we have felt this way at this stage of life without the impacts of the pandemic? I can’t help but wonder how many marriages that imploded in the past five years would have survived if not for the relentless stress Covid put on families. The truth is, the pandemic didn’t just accelerate a mid-life crisis for our generation—it completely reshaped it.
And yet, there’s still nostalgia for some of those early days in 2020. The forced slowdown, the lack of over-scheduling, the time to rediscover creative pursuits. During the first year of the pandemic, in backyards and driveways, six feet apart in our own chairs we brought from home (because germs!), I got the unexpected blessing of being able to form deep friendships with other moms trying to stay sane in the quiet of an uncertain world. Now, getting dinner on the calendar with those same friends takes months of planning.
Still, there’s deep gratitude for being back to some semblance of pre-pandemic normalcy. I laugh now when I remember how we all peed outside in bushes rather than risk using a friend’s bathroom in the spring of 2020. And how we initially thought it would be over in a few weeks, then everything would be back to “normal.”
I’ll never again take for granted eating inside a restaurant, hugging a friend, or stepping inside of someone’s home. And I like to think I’ll never stop appreciating the energy of a crowded concert, or a packed house party—the simple joy of being where the people are.
But normal? Normal is gone. Just like after 9/11, there is no going back. The world changed, and we changed with it. The best we can do is move forward, a little more present, a little more grateful, and maybe—just maybe—a little more aware of what truly matters.
