Last weekend, my partner and I received an email from the Chicago Public School district that parents all over the country are dreading. The subject heading read:
[QUARANTINE REQUIRED] Reported Case of COVID-19 at CHICAGO WORLD LANGUAGE ACADEMY
What followed was a set of instructions about Covid testing, quarantine, remote learning, etc. In short, our daughter cannot go to school and must quarantine for 14 days. This remains in effect regardless of her lack of symptoms or negative test results.
On its own, this development is a frustrating setback, just one week into the new school year. But for us, it feels like yet another punch in the gut after a challenging summer filled with multiple Covid scares, repeated testing, and seemingly endless quarantines. By the time this next 14-day quarantine is over, one or both of our kids will have been in quarantine for 38 of the 45 days between August 1 and September 14. I’ve driven to the outpatient drive-through clinic at Lurie Children’s Hospital so many times now that it autosaved to my car’s navigation system as a “favorite place.”
Our daughter is six and our son is one, so quarantine for them essentially means quarantine for the entire family. It also means no childcare, no grocery shopping, no playdates, no birthday parties—no “going back to normal” by any stretch of the imagination.
It also means we cannot meet our work obligations.
I cannot continue to operate as if everything is normal. We had all hoped that by this point in 2021, we'd be well on our way to resuming life as we'd known it: going to the movies, traveling, eating out, seeing friends, going to concerts, etc. Instead, we are in the middle of one of the worst surges of the pandemic. Astoundingly, half our society continues to operate as if the pandemic is over. The other half has been pulled back into the depths of darkness and despair that we experienced in spring 2020. There is certainly no sense that we are all in this together, if there ever was.
I write this not to draw attention to myself or my personal situation, and I seek no sympathy. My partner and I both have well-paying jobs with benefits, a stable housing situation, and our families are (knock on wood) all safe and healthy.
But it’s small consolation to remind ourselves that there are others out there who are struggling more than we are. “It could be worse” is not exactly an uplifting sentiment that will carry you through the day, let alone provide a sense of purpose in life. Like anyone, we want to live with a sense of hope, optimism, and fulfillment. Lately, we approach each day with a sense of dread.
You can only live like this for so long. Eventually, you just have to adjust your expectations and move on.
Personally, I have decided that I have to be realistic with myself and others about what I can do now and what I can commit to doing moving forward. This means saying “no” more often than saying “yes.” This means being okay with missing professional opportunities that may never come around again. This means sometimes failing to live up to other people’s expectations—repeatedly and unpredictably—to the point of disappointing others and perhaps tarnishing my reputation.
My old self would refuse to accept this. My pre-pandemic self would not tolerate anything less than the unrelenting pursuit of excellence and ambition. Today, though, I have no choice but to expect less and accept less, both of myself and others. I didn’t want things to be this way, nor do I want them to continue to be this way. But I’m done being thrown off the wagon, frustrated and angry that I can’t do things as usual.
Acceptance (but not resignation) is how I choose to respond. In my mind, acceptance means holding your head high and being okay with how things are. Resignation, by contrast, means feeling defeated and not being okay with how things are. Between the two, I choose acceptance. I am doing what I can. But under the current circumstances, this often falls quite a bit short of doing my best.
Last week, through quite a few tears, I shared many of these sentiments with my staff. Although they are used to me demanding excellence in all that we do, I offered this different approach that is hopefully both more compassionate and more realistic. Now, more than ever, we need to cultivate a sense of deep empathy for one another. Each of us has experienced this pandemic through a different set of circumstances, and the only way we’re going to get through this is for people to start making decisions that take into account more than their own individual interests viewed from their own individual perspective.
We’ll get back to normal eventually, even if “normal” looks different than the world we knew in 2019. Despite all the challenges right now, we do have an opportunity to slow down and tend to what’s most important in our lives. With any luck, this work will provide the fertile ground for us to build back better, and to become better versions of ourselves—as individuals, as families, as communities.
If you know me at all, you know that I love (bad) sports analogies. So here’s my analogy for the day: Michael Jordan famously pushed through a high fever and illness to score 38 points during the now-legendary “flu game” in Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals. Many of us have adopted this mentality throughout the pandemic. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Just push through. Grin and bear it. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. But at a certain point, no amount of willpower can get you over the hurdles thrown your way. Michael Jordan with a broken leg does not win that game. He just doesn’t play. He’s sidelined, and no amount of talent, optimism, or mental fortitude can change that.
And that’s where I am today.