As I sat in my car, a masked figure approached and knocked on my trunk. I pressed the release button, watching as he tossed in a plastic bag, slammed the trunk shut, and dashed away without uttering a word. It all felt surreal. Driving home from the grocery store, I wondered aloud, “Is this really happening?”
I felt like a character in an unsettling film. No catastrophic event had befallen me, yet a strange tension had infiltrated my daily life. For the past two months, a sense of unease had quietly settled over my family’s routine, leaving me with an unsettling feeling of incompleteness.
Initially, I thought my disorientation stemmed from the drastic reduction in human interaction. It’s not as if I were alone in a deserted city like Will Smith in I Am Legend. There were signs of life around me—boxes of groceries left on our doorstep by unseen delivery drivers, a soccer ball abandoned in our yard as our young neighbor hesitated to retrieve it. Strangers brought me food from restaurants, their faces hidden behind masks. One evening, I found myself fixating on the name scrawled on a receipt—THOMPSON—wondering if the writer was young or old. Was I really that bored? Perhaps. Was I yearning for some sort of connection? Definitely.
Still grappling with my discomfort after my grocery run, I returned home to the familiar sounds of my children bickering over a broken toy. Their voices, filled with the chaos of sibling rivalry, offered a strange comfort amidst the silence outside. Yes, our household has grown more chaotic during the pandemic, but it has never been quieter. My husband and I struggle to find moments for ourselves in the midst of our lively boys. Outside our home, though, I’ve lost the simple joys of everyday conversation: the friendly chat with the barista, the quick exchanges with fellow parents, the laughter shared with friends at school events. Those fleeting interactions once energized me, connecting me to my community as an extroverted stay-at-home mom.
What’s more troubling is that my few in-person encounters now feel tainted by a sense of danger. A barrier now exists between me and the cashier during my grocery trips. On walks, neighbors cross to the opposite side of the street as we approach. The one time I dared to pick up dinner, I waited outside the restaurant until a single customer finished their order. Just three months prior, my boys and I had felt fortunate to live in such a secure neighborhood. Now, every stranger has become a potential risk, even myself.
Virtual interactions provide only a modicum of satisfaction. My six-year-old chats with friends on Google Classroom, their faces reduced to glitchy tiny squares. I observe my eight-year-old trying to engage in conversations amidst the cacophony of twenty second graders talking over each other. Zoom dinners are pleasant enough, but the “meeting” invites we send each other remind me of the app’s original purpose. One night during a Zoom game, a friend stepped away, and I found myself staring forlornly at her empty chair, making me long for our in-person gatherings even more.
While virtual meet-ups allow me to see and hear loved ones, they do little to alleviate the persistent discomfort I’ve felt since March—a sense that I’m not truly living my life.
Then one evening, during a Zoom call with former students from my years of teaching, the source of my anxiety became clear. As we prepared to end our gathering, one former student pressed his palm against his computer screen in a farewell gesture. In that moment, it struck me: my closest relationships are grounded in touch. We hug hello and goodbye, hold hands during moments of distress, and comfort each other with a reassuring pat on the back. Even in the classroom, touch was a vital part of my interactions—handshakes, high-fives, and hugs were all integral to my connection with students.
Research shows that touch is the first sense a fetus develops, and a nurturing touch can enhance a child’s growth and ease various emotional struggles in adults. While individuals have differing needs for physical contact, I know that more than anything, I miss the act of touching. I long to embrace my mother, to acknowledge the ache of her longing for her absent family members who, until recently, were frequent visitors. I wish to shake the hands of our principal and teachers to express gratitude for their incredible efforts during these challenging days. I yearn to hold my father’s hand as he reminds me that nothing lasts forever. I want to watch my boys take their cousin Mia’s hand and run freely across the lawn, or curl up with my mother-in-law while she reads them a story.
There has been much discussion about “when this will be over.” Will we feel secure traveling “when this is over”? Will we be at ease sending our children back to school “when this is over”? How will we even recognize “when this is over”? Regarding travel and schools, I genuinely do not know when I will feel safe. Much will depend on guidance from health experts. However, I do understand that my own feelings of unease and incompleteness will dissipate once I am able to replace touch screens and touchpads with genuine, human touch.
For more reflections on the impact of the pandemic, check out this related post on home insemination kits.
Summary:
The pandemic has stripped away our daily interactions and the comforting presence of touch, leading to a profound sense of unease and incompleteness. The author reflects on the importance of physical connection in relationships and how the lack of touch has affected her life. As she navigates a world filled with virtual interactions, she longs for the warmth of human contact, highlighting that true comfort comes from the simple acts of hugging, holding hands, and connecting physically with others.