Last August, as I celebrated my 41st birthday with my husband and two sons among the majestic Redwoods of Northern California, I felt a surge of optimism. I had managed to color my hair, work was tolerable, and we had survived six months of the pandemic. I was even writing again after years spent in the whirlwind of parenting. The fall brought its comforts—cinnamon-scented candles, homemade pumpkin donuts, and an election outcome that brought relief. In the back of my mind, I clung to the hope that life would improve by the holidays, even as I knew that logic was shaky at best.
But then Thanksgiving passed, and reality hit hard with a surge, dragging us back into the depths of uncertainty. 2021 arrived, burdened with the unresolved issues of the previous year, leaving us feeling stuck. The promise of vaccines became complicated by new variants, and in-person schooling seemed a distant fantasy.
As the pandemic unfolded, I began to sense the creeping effects of age. My sedentary lifestyle had led to sciatica, wrinkles deepened, and I discovered gray hairs in unwelcomed places. Then came a letter from my doctor confirming my fears: “Your labs show elevated cholesterol; I’m prescribing a statin, and we’ll re-evaluate in two months.” This was the wake-up call I didn’t want.
I always thought I’d be the type to experience a mid-life crisis. I frequently find myself questioning my career choices, pondering whether I’d be happier pursuing something more creative or fulfilling. Despite my love for my children, the lack of school events or social outings made me wonder, “Is this all there is?”
In my 20s and 30s, it felt like time was on my side, allowing me the luxury to explore what would bring me joy. When I married at 31, the world appeared to be our playground. Yet, time slipped away amid travel, parenthood, and the chaos of life, culminating in a pandemic that halted everything. Now, as I sit on this metaphorical wall of stagnation, I reflect on the years that passed since my eldest was born and question, “What happened? I barely remember it.” Looking ahead, I wonder, “Is there more beyond this wall, or are we trapped here indefinitely?”
While I watch days and holidays fly by on my calendar, it feels as though nothing changes, and each day becomes a monotonous echo of the last.
Recently, during a car ride with my sister, she shared about a Zoom call with friends who felt similarly lost—frustrated with work, relationships, and their living situations. One contemplated moving across the country, while another had just ended a three-year relationship. It seems many are grappling with their own versions of a COVID crisis.
My husband and I have even discussed moving back east, lamenting the high cost of living in the Bay Area, as friends leave due to skyrocketing home prices and wildfire smoke. Zillow browsing, which I initially took up to avoid news doom-scrolling, became an obsession as I searched for a new home and a fresh start. After a brief getaway to the mountains, I felt as if the invigorating winter air had snapped me out of a daze. My mind had convinced me that I needed to make drastic changes to feel alive, fearing stagnation would lead to a stillness akin to a shark.
“I feel like I’m experiencing a COVID mid-life crisis,” I told my sister, who was relieved to hear we weren’t likely moving. “I almost sold my house in a bid for escape.”
In the early days of the pandemic, many adopted new hobbies as coping mechanisms. “I’ll learn to bake bread!” became a popular refrain, while countless individuals bought exercise equipment to combat the feeling of confinement. Others turned to home remodeling or redecorating in a bid to find joy in their living spaces.
Yet, in my own kitchen, as I chop vegetables or stir soup, I often wonder why I feel so unwell. I have so much to be grateful for—my children, my home, my family. Why am I feeling this way? I know others face much greater challenges. As I sift through the stressors in my life, I can’t quite pinpoint the source of this unrest. I often find myself obsessing over work tasks or scrolling through Zillow, searching for something better—or perhaps just something different.
Now, I grapple with the question: Do I take a leap, uproot my family, and buy a farm in Oregon to find something new? Should I pursue work that stimulates my dormant creativity or plan a vacation six months down the line? I feel an urgent need to address this mental roadblock that distracts me from appreciating what I have. Or should I simply wait, expressing gratitude for my current situation, and accept that there may not be a perfect solution?
We’re all on a quest to fill this void, seeking anything to alleviate the familiar sensations of emptiness and anxiety. Logically, I know this phase will end. For now, I’ll remain perched on my wall, scrolling through Zillow, contemplating my next move.