I wanted to write something fun, something uplifting. But I simply can’t. Not today.
It’s June, 2020. Half the year is gone. It began with vast, terrible fires in Australia that devastated the country. Not long after, the first cases of coronavirus appeared in China. The UK withdrew from the EU. Countries began going into lockdown as the virus spread. Vacations and the time to see friends around the world were cancelled.
I got the virus and spent the next ten weeks trying to breathe, trying not to die. Nearly 400,000 people have lost the fight. And that’s official numbers—they are likely much higher.
Lockdown began to ease and racial tensions exploded. Justified rage spilled onto streets all over the US. The president is a catalyst for hatred, for injustice, for greed, and ignorance. The country is burning with emotions, and change simply must happen in the face of all that communal fury.
I sit in my lovely home, in the sunshine, and despair threatens to overwhelm me. All the pain, all the suffering that this year has brought with it makes me ache to my bones. I hurt for my friends of colour, for a country with so much that seems to resist evolving into something better with every inch of itself. I watch the implosions around me that are based in fear and ignorance and I crumple.
I want to hide. I want to climb onto the roof and scream. I want to cry. I want to yell. I want to gather my loved ones close as dystopia looms at the edge of my toes.
Instead, I’ll bake. I’ll check in with people and keep my connections. I’ll try to see the good things, too. I’ll remind myself that times like these have happened throughout history and we will get through them.
I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re doing things that make you happy, that encourage. I hope you’re safe. If you’re on the frontlines of any of these fights, I hope you stay strong and that you have strong shoulders next to yours.