I couldn’t have been more excited for the end of spring break. A week at home to relax with family was all I needed to finish off the rest of the semester on a high note– but just that. One week. I might be in the minority here, but there is a hard limit of time I can spend living at home before cabin fever has me in its clutches. My mental health is far better away from home, where I have the independence to live life on my own terms. My week at home was calm. I didn’t go on any life-changing adventures, but I liked that. I’m a simple girl, a real homebody when I have to be. I was able to enjoy the comfort of home-cooked meals, cuddle my cat as much as I wanted to, and abandon the stress of academic life for a brief moment in time. It was a cozy reprieve from the chaos of go, go go. After the week had passed, though, I was already envisioning college life again. Just a few days until I could be with my boyfriend again, until we could embrace the springtime and all it offered: picnics in the sun, junior year Ring Dance, and our beautiful campus blooming with color.
When news finally came around that we were to spend the remainder of the semester at home and that our classes would proceed online, I was devastated. I cried for hours, feeling stolen from and absolutely crushed. While I understood the need for precaution in order to take measures against the spread of COVID-19, I could not help but mourn the loss of everything I was looking forward to– every motivating event I had marked on my calendar in bright red Sharpie. I felt horribly and utterly selfish. People were dying and there I was, breaking down over a few months of school I’d miss.
My mental health spiraled out of control that day. I could not bring myself to eat, reach out to friends, or even view things optimistically. I couldn’t snap out of it no matter how strong my will. I came across so many positive self-care posts on Instagram, but they just filled me with an even greater feeling of depression. I didn’t want face masks, group FaceTime calls with friends, or endless free time to read books or catch up on Netflix shows. All of that seemed useless, almost nauseating to me. I wanted my world back, not the one I left behind.
It was traumatic. When I finally had time to write about what I was feeling, I decided to document my emotions on social media. I posted a series of photos from college, some of the best memories I had, with the following caption:
“If I knew what was coming, I would’ve devoted more early Monday mornings to double-chinned laughter. I would’ve visited the koi pond more than just “every so often.” I would’ve hugged my sweet sisters a little bit longer, would’ve taken more photos in the pretty bathroom mirror at the Italian restaurant. I would’ve lost my voice at more home football games, even if our team kept disappointing us time and time again. I still would’ve bloody-murder screamed “H-O-K-I-E-S HOKIES!” all the way home, unapologetically clad in maroon and orange, because that’s what we are, and that’s what we’ll always be.
My camera roll is not my friend tonight. I’ve cried every day since I found out we weren’t going to finish the year as planned. I miss midnights with my brothers, capturing wild memories (and lack thereof) on blurry Polaroids with terrible exposure. I miss impromptu photoshoots. I even miss brutal Blacksburg winter, bundling up for class, nearly freezing to death but knowing it was all worth it to make it just in time for Dr. Gardner’s poetry class where we talked about life and death and all of the misery and splendor in-between (creds to Robert Hass). Those mornings left me wordless every single time. Right now, though, I think I’m a little closer to misery.
Nothing will ever be the same again. When we come back, it’ll be like coming home, only to realize that everything has changed ever so slightly, hardly noticeable, but still strangely off: the walls, the arrangement of furniture, the feeling of family as it exists in my memory. While we’re gone, we’ll miss dinnertime sunsets. Sunday morning bike rides. We’ll miss the first time the flowers bloom again. And I just realized it now— I met some of my closest friends during their senior year. Maybe we’ll never sit around together doing nothing in each other’s living rooms again. I wish we could’ve done nothing for a little bit longer.”
The response I got was overwhelming.
Seniors reached out to me, describing how hurt they felt when their graduation ceremony was robbed. Students I’d never met or talked to before told me their stories. Some of them didn’t have a healthy home life. Some of them had huge plans– internships, job offers, etc.– that they no longer had. I finally felt like I wasn’t alone in this mess. I could see clearly that we were all struggling to comprehend and come to terms with the turn of events no one saw coming. It finally hit me. It was okay to be devastated. It was okay to feel like the world that we knew was crumbling around us.
When my feelings were validated, I could finally process the situation for what it is. I’ve gone a few days without breaking down, and I consider that progress. While I know we are all still hurt, I’ve realized one thing that’s been carrying me through ever since:
It’s going to be so good, so soon.
Because life doesn’t end here. In fact, life opens at the close. There will be more days in the sun, more evenings where we can huddle close with our best friends, laughing until our sides ache and tears spill down our cheeks. Every night I FaceTime my boyfriend, and while sometimes it aches to find ourselves 200+ miles away unexpectedly, we are clinging to hope and choosing to be thankful to have technology that allows us to communicate as if we were sitting right next to each other.
This is a hurt we all share. None of us are alone.
This isn’t the end of the world, no all-consuming apocalypse. It’s the beginning of a new world where we are able to touch without taking the act of doing so for granted. We’ll dance, cry, and hold each other tighter than ever before, knowing that these things that used to fill our days without second thought are privileges– blessings that we can embrace on a much deeper level.
I’m looking forward to returning to a happier campus. I’m imagining the looks on my professors’ faces, seeing everyone flock back to Blacksburg with a real excitement to be together again. It’ll be a fresh start for us all.
I’d like to share a prose poem by Kitty O’Meara. It’s been speaking to my heart ever since I stumbled upon it.
“And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently.
And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.
And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.”
