Pandemic Fatigue: Time for Something Else
When I was giving birth to my daughter, there came a point—about twelve hours into my unmedicated, at-home, every-90-seconds-a-contraction back-labor odyssey—where I was done. I looked up at my midwife, bleary and exhausted, and said, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” She smiled, beatifically, and said, “Okay. Let’s do something else.”
I think a whole lot of us are feeling something akin to that level of weariness right about now with the “All COVID, All the Time” marathon we’re running. We’re tired and we’re worn out. We’ve been tying to do what we’re supposed to do (mostly) and we know that relief is just around the corner, but it’s not here yet and honestly, nine months in, it’s time for that freakin’ baby to be born. We don’t want to do this anymore.
It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn
I was doing pretty okay with everything until December hit. And then, the combination of the non-stop pandemic, the cold weather, and the trio of death anniversaries that circle around at this time of year and it all…just…hit me. I’m done. I don’t want to do this any more. I know I’m not alone. I think I’m in very good company here, but that doesn’t help me, knowing this. Remembering my birth story, however, did.
You see, what I didn’t realize back on that day, exhausted by relentless contractions, was that the moment I told my midwife I didn’t want to do it anymore was the signal that I had entered what is called “Transition.” “Transition” is when a laboring mother moves from contractions to pushing. It is, quite literally, the time when something new begins to happen. But the something new isn't the end result: it's a shift.
It’s not surprising that we are, collectively, feeling done with the pandemic process. It’s been nine months (coincidence?). Plus, it’s the holidays. A New Year is around the corner. We want to celebrate and start fresh. We want our stores and social events and schools and jobs back. I know I do. I want all those things and I’m not going to get them…yet.
Bumpy Beginnings
But there is change happening. Vaccines are being tested. Solstice means the light will begin to grow which means getting back outside. Flowers will bloom and critters will be born. In a word, Hope. We know there will be an end but we're not ... quite ... there. We're in transition, and transitions are not always smooth. (Think labor. Think presidential elections.)
Once I transitioned, back on that June day, things went sideways. The urge to push—something that normally just happens without conscious effort—never came. I was unable to deliver my daughter after 23.5 hours of really, really trying. Ultimately, I was compelled to have an emergency surgical birth. Not fun. Not the picture I had in mind—24 hours of hard labor and then major surgery. But my daughter did arrive—gorgeous and healthy and whole. We made it to the other side. It felt victorious.
Humble and Kind
There are some things—many things—we simply cannot change. We can’t hurry a baby or a pandemic, nor can we dictate the process. They are going to run their course, their way, and we can either fight it, or we can surrender to what’s next, even if what’s next is yet another surprise not to our liking. We can focus our energies on what’s right here, right now. We can learn humility (a word that means “grounded”), recognizing that we aren't omnipotent or immune to life's difficulties. We can accept what is and find empowerment in the choices we can make.
And you do have choice through this long labor. The choice isn’t about timing or making everything go according to your beautiful plan: the choice is how you go through it. You can choose to be angry, frustrated and complain. You can choose be fearful and anxious. You can be depressed and defeated...or…you can choose to move through this difficult process with grace and acceptance and use it as an opportunity to become empowered, in the deepest sense of becoming flexible, strong, resilient, and positive—qualities that will not only improve your life, but be a blessing to everyone you meet going forward.
We’re going to get to the other side of this eventually—we are—and when we do, each of us will have a story to tell. May yours be one of grace and growth.
