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In the initial phases of the pandemic, I found myself gazing out of the window for what felt like hours. I was lost, unable to find my footing and struggling to make decisions — from trivial choices like takeout to significant ones regarding my career. Even when I did decide, it felt wrong or out of character. Fear and dread lingered constantly.
As fall turned into a dreary winter, there seemed to be a glimmer of hope in late spring. I was initially skeptical but became cautiously optimistic that the worst was behind us. However, that hope soon crumbled, replaced by overwhelming waves of anger. I’m not just sad — I’m furious. Day in and day out, I wrestle with an anger that simmers just beneath the surface.
On the outside, everything appears fine. My family is healthy and vaccinated, masks are mandated where we live, and my work is fulfilling and flexible. My marriage is strong, and I enjoy spending time with my husband.
So, what’s the issue? Well… let’s just say I’m overwhelmed by everything happening in the world.
During the early months of the pandemic, I was in a haze. Confused and exhausted, I lost track of time and struggled to figure out what I should be doing. Should I clean the closets? Nap? Update my resume? Or just take another walk?
Eventually, the brain fog gave way to anxiety and a persistent sense of hopelessness. It felt strange to admit my struggles because, on most days, I seemed to navigate life without issue. I managed work, volunteered, did household chores, connected with friends, and even found silver linings in the chaos, like skipping Saturday sports and enjoying a Netflix show with my kids during lunch breaks. Yet, even those moments felt tainted by an underlying dread.
When people asked, “How are you?” I often hesitated. Should I reveal that I felt utterly drained from quarantine fatigue, conspiracy theories, and witnessing a lack of compassion among people? Or should I express how grateful I am for my family’s health, our stability, and my strong relationships? Ultimately, I was too tired to respond honestly and would settle for a simple, “I’m fine… I guess.”
Now, almost a year later, I still feel the same mix of emotions.
Despite the intense rage I experience and the continuous disappointment with the state of the pandemic, I find myself surprisingly — and almost embarrassingly — happy. This contradiction leaves me feeling confused. How can I feel so angry and sad when my life appears to be going well? It seems illogical, like I’m carrying a dark cloud around with me.
The answer? Ambiguous loss.
In the early days of the pandemic, discussions around grief were prevalent. We mourned the loss of our normal routines, security, social connections, and jobs. And here we are a year later, still facing those losses. For many, especially highly sensitive people, we are also mourning our loss of faith in humanity. The realization that people may not be as caring as I once believed has shaken me profoundly. Is it even valid to grieve this loss of faith in humanity and normalcy?
According to Dr. Pauline Boss, who developed the theory of ambiguous loss, it’s not only valid but crucial to acknowledge. This type of loss can lead to feeling stuck, as it often remains undefined and unrecognized. In her new book, The Myth of Closure: Ambiguous Loss in a Time of Pandemic and Change, Dr. Boss explains how ambiguous losses can be debilitating because they disrupt our ability to move forward.
To get unstuck, she suggests letting go of the expectation of closure. Instead of erasing sadness, we should focus on finding purpose in our grief. I admit that this feels daunting. Last spring, I coped by helping friends and family secure vaccine appointments, but now, I’m struggling to channel my anger, loss, and grief into something meaningful. I’m just a writer, a mom, a wife, and a friend trying to navigate these complicated emotions.
I hope to eventually find a way to make something meaningful from this tragic time. I hope we all can, and that we can begin to heal together. For now, perhaps sharing this experience will help someone feel a little less alone.