As I sat in my car, a masked stranger approached and knocked on my trunk. I pressed the release button, watching him toss a plastic bag inside, slam it shut, and scurry away without a word. It all felt surreal, like a scene from a dream. Driving back from the store, I found myself questioning, “Is this really my life?”
In those early days of the pandemic, I felt like a character in a horror film. Although no direct threat had come my way, an unsettling atmosphere had enveloped my everyday interactions. For two months, an underlying tension seemed to linger over the remnants of my family life, leaving me feeling incomplete.
Initially, I attributed this odd feeling to the scarcity of human faces around me. Sure, I’m not a Will Smith character navigating a deserted city, but the signs of life are few and far between. Packages of essentials show up on my doorstep, delivered by unseen hands. A soccer ball rests abandoned in our yard, a reminder that our young neighbor is now too frightened to retrieve it. Our meals are prepared by cooks I’ll never meet, picked up by strangers. One evening, I found myself scrutinizing a receipt scribbled with the name “THOMPSON,” trying to guess the age or gender of the writer. Was I really that bored? Perhaps. Or maybe I was just yearning for a connection.
Upon returning home, I was met with the familiar sounds of my two boys bickering over a broken toy. Their voices, raised in a playful argument, reminded me of the comfort in chaos. Yes, life has become more hectic since the pandemic began, but within our home, it’s anything but quiet. With two restless boys, my husband and I struggle to find moments of solitude. Outside, however, I miss the simple exchanges that once filled my day—conversations with baristas, fellow parents, and friendly encounters at school. Those fleeting moments were what revitalized me as an extroverted stay-at-home mom, grounding me in my community.
What’s more disheartening is that the few in-person interactions I have now feel tainted by a sense of danger. A plastic shield stands between me and the cashier at the grocery store. On neighborhood walks, people step aside to avoid getting too close. I remember waiting outside a restaurant until a single customer finished their order, a far cry from the bustling atmosphere we once took for granted. Just a few months ago, my kids and I felt lucky to live in a safe community. Now, everyone seems like a potential threat—even myself.
Digital interactions offer only a slight reprieve. My youngest struggles to connect with classmates through glitchy online videos. My eight-year-old fights to engage in brief conversations amidst the noise of his virtual second-grade class. Zoom dinners, while nice, remind me of the limitations of technology. I found myself staring at an empty chair during a game night, wishing for the warmth of in-person company.
The source of my unease became painfully clear during a recent Zoom reunion with former students from my teaching days. As we said our goodbyes, one of them pressed his palm against the screen. It struck me then: I, along with my loved ones, thrive on touch. We embrace upon greeting and parting, hold hands during tough times, and share celebratory high-fives. Even in the classroom, my connection with students was often conveyed through touch—a handshake here, a pat on the back there.
Touch is fundamental; it’s the first sense we develop in the womb and is crucial for both emotional and physical well-being throughout life. While I recognize that each person has different comfort levels, I find myself longing for the simple act of connecting physically. I wish I could hug my mom and share the weight of her concern for our family. I want to shake hands with teachers to express my gratitude for their tireless efforts. I long to hold my father’s hand and feel the reassurance of his presence. I want to see my boys run joyfully with their cousin, feeling the warmth of family togetherness.
There’s been much discussion about “when this will be over.” Will we feel safe traveling or sending our children back to school? I’m uncertain about those timelines, as they rely on health professionals’ guidance. However, I know that my sense of unease will dissipate when I can move beyond the confines of touch screens and instead embrace the comforting, human connection that comes with physical touch.
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Summary:
The pandemic has stripped away many facets of life, but the most profound loss is the ability to connect through touch. As a stay-at-home mom, I feel the absence of those simple interactions that once energized me and grounded me within my community. While technology offers a temporary solution, nothing compares to the warmth of human contact. As we navigate an uncertain future, I look forward to the day when I can once again embrace my loved ones freely.