I sometimes forget how time works differently at certain ages. A year for me, at age 36, is more of a blip than a landmark occasion. But for my four-and-a-half-year-old son, a year is monumental—a gigantic slice of his existence. And for someone who deeply craves a consistent routine, as he does, any deviation from a long-standing schedule brings disruption, instability, and feelings of anxiety and fear.
About two months ago, my son’s best friend in his preschool class moved an hour away. This proved catastrophic: His rock, his ally, his foundation five days a week was suddenly absent. That kind of departure can be easier for an adult to swallow (logically, if not also emotionally), but for him, it meant losing his constant companion of nearly half of his existence.
It’s been hard for our family to navigate the newfound and deep-seated separation anxiety stemming from her departure. That anxiety has manifested in a number of ways, all of which are relatively difficult and traumatic for us to collectively deal with. How can we validate his feelings and emotions while also communicating inevitable life lessons like “life isn’t fair” or “people come and go”? Parenting, as it turns out, is tough.
But he’s not alone in feeling unmoored in a world that’s suddenly and irrevocably changed. I feel a similar sense of anxiety upon re-entering my own social spheres, especially the world of craft beer. What once brought me joy—my community, my people—now fills me with a sense of dread. San Diego is relatively ahead of the curve when it comes to vaccination rates, but even besides health concerns, I just don’t know how to be in the presence of people the same way I used to. (And, if I’m being honest, working alone at home for nearly six years probably hasn’t helped keep my social skills as sharp as they once were.) It’s like some divine spirit hiccuped in 2016 and knocked us into a parallel universe where nothing fits quite right.
Despite what many people assume after interacting with me in person or online, I’m intensely shy. Any over-the-top personality quirks are a direct result of lifelong social anxiety; insecurity; and an aversion to new situations, places, and people. And the defense mechanisms I’d crafted throughout my life—mostly using humor, and occasionally my husband, as shields—are no longer as useful as they were in The World Before. A few years ago, if I received an invitation for a beer event or festival, I’d do anything I could to ensure I was there. That was the benefit of mixing personal enjoyment with my profession; it was okay to drink all Saturday, because it was “work.”
But today, fewer invites hit my inbox than before (thanks, COVID) and even fewer of them get a “yes” from me. It’s part burnout, part jaded cynicism, but the last part is definitely due to a resurgence in feelings I thought I’d managed to subdue in adolescence. I’m not as comfortable navigating our newly polarized and ever-changing society anymore. Unspoken cultural norms seem to have gone out the window. Even the barest modicum of civility seems to have disappeared: It sure seems like more people are running red lights, cutting in line, or snapping at each other than ever before. It’s just unpleasant for me to be around most people. I’d rather stay home.
Will my son and I get over our feelings of unease and uncertainty? Honestly, I don’t know. The only thing I can do for him right now is to keep reassuring him that the one thing he can be certain of is that I’ll always be here for him. As for me, I think the only thing I can do is focus on the things that do bring me joy and comfort: Yoga class, time spent with family, and building up what’s becoming a pretty nice collection of sweatpants.
