My Quarantine Breakdown

When I found myself choking back sobs as Wilson the volleyball floated away on screen, I knew it was time. That night, as my house slept, I crept out into the living room, wrapped myself in a blanket with the dog, and cried. I allowed myself to feel what had been bubbling up for weeks, but I’d postponed out of the need to hold chaos at bay. I knew I couldn’t outrun it any longer. And I knew given enough time, suppressed emotion does more damage then good.

One of the most radical acts of evolution-of the self, of the collective, of our planet-is choosing to feel. By giving voice to our sadness, grief and despair, we are acknowledging that things are not ok. And nothing gets fixed when we pretend it isn’t broken.

But I already knew all this. The lesson I was reminded of is when my sleepy husband wandered into the living room looking for me. I felt badly for having woken him and slightly embarrassed for being found. “Did you really think I’d let you cry alone?” he asked. I’d thought it would have been easier if I just handled it quietly by myself. But the honesty, the vulnerability that I needed to move through didn’t come until I cried with him.

If we are to move forward from this place, this stinging, raw and oozing place, we need to acknowledge it, own it and feel it. It is only then that we can learn from it and heal.