As I sped along at 55 mph in the fast lane of the Bay Bridge, it hit me: I hadn’t driven at night in over a year. Cars zipped past like flies, and I wondered if nighttime driving had always felt this disorienting. Was it even safe? More importantly, aren’t you statistically more likely to get into a car accident than to contract COVID?
I was on my way to a friend’s outdoor birthday dinner, marking my first foray back into the social scene—and my first time away from my four-month-old daughter and three-year-old twins since the pandemic began. The group was mostly vaccinated, the COVID numbers in the Bay Area were dropping, and my baby was sleeping through the night. My rational side urged me to go; it was time to rejoin the world. So, on the night of the party, I left my partner at home with our sleeping children and set off into the night.
However, the moment I backed out of the driveway, a sense of unease washed over me. As I drove down our street, I suddenly felt my breasts fill with milk, and my anxiety began to swell. By the time I reached the bridge, I was teetering on the edge of a panic attack. What if that massive structure collapsed into the bay? How could I abandon my little ones in the darkness, separated by a body of water too vast to swim? It felt wrong, unnatural. My instincts screamed while my mind scolded me for being overly dramatic.
In an attempt to silence the panic, I put on my pre-parenting “Going Out” playlist—lots of Robyn mixed with a dash of Nicki Minaj—and somehow made it to the restaurant. The outdoor dining area looked surreal, almost cartoonish, like a scene from a bizarre dream. Twinkling lights hung between heat lamps, illuminating picnic tables adorned with appetizers surrounded by laughter and clinking glasses. The place buzzed with energy. I approached my friends, who were deep in a lively discussion about Meghan Markle’s authenticity. It felt as though everyone had seamlessly returned to their former lives, while I was still stuck in a different reality.
“Emily!” the birthday girl exclaimed, “You made it!”
“I did! It was quite the trek!” I replied, but no one laughed. Oh no, I’d lost my knack for reading social cues.
“Well, time for champagne!” she declared, pouring a glass for me. “Cheers to being kid-free! And husband-free!”
“Just a tiny bit, I have to drive home!” I said, desperately wanting to check the baby monitor on my phone.
“Oh come on, don’t think about home!” she urged.
Escaping home had been my fantasy throughout the first half of the pandemic. I’d yearned to escape the often suffocating routine of caring for infants and toddlers. More than once, I had envisioned fleeing to a tropical paradise, where my only concern would be enjoying a variety of cocktails. So why was I suddenly dreading these two hours of freedom? The reality was that the combination of the pandemic, pregnancy, and postpartum experiences had wrapped me in a thick cocoon over the past 18 months, transforming my fantasies into mere illusions. I wasn’t prepared for this.
Under the table, I texted my partner, “Is everything okay?”
“Baby’s crying, but it’s fine, he’ll settle. Enjoy yourself!” he replied.
“Emily! Put that phone down! No checking in allowed!” my friend chided.
“Sorry! What are you guys ordering?” I asked, glancing at the menu, overwhelmed by the options. I felt like crying.
Was this postpartum depression? It felt reminiscent of my experience after having my twins. For months following their difficult delivery, I had stayed close to home, tethered to the basic need for survival. Being out in the fast-paced world felt hazardous—like I’d lose touch with my babies’ rhythm, which was my primary focus. The chaotic inputs from news, social media, and email made me feel nauseous. I had always been a go-getter, a frantic tech worker juggling meetings and happy hours, but suddenly I found myself transformed into a sensitive creature concerned solely with food, shelter, and sleep.
After the first phase of lockdown, I adopted a similar mindset to preserve my sanity. My best days involved setting aside dreams of escape and embracing the simple life, much like a pioneer woman on the prairie. Success was defined by everyone eating and staying safe. Gradually, this mindset became a natural way of living, akin to adjusting to life with a newborn.
Suddenly, the waiter appeared, “Ready to order?” Surprisingly, everyone was. They rattled off dishes I had forgotten existed—Dungeness crab, pork belly, kumquats. I scanned the salads and realized that pioneers didn’t eat microgreens. Panicking, I ordered the soup of the day, a familiar comfort reminiscent of the canned goods I had stored in my pantry.
“So, guys, we can’t use the smiley face emoji anymore,” one friend joked after the waiter left.
“Also, no skinny jeans!” chimed another. “Or side parts!”
Laughter erupted. What? How had such fashion trends become outdated so quickly? They moved on to topics like A-Rod and J-Lo, Southern Charm, and the best toys to keep kids entertained. Slowly, I found myself enjoying the exchange. My friends’ quick-witted banter activated something in my brain that had felt dormant for ages. I laughed at their jokes. It was refreshing to be around adults discussing anything other than the chaos of parenting.
Yet while I waited in line for the restroom, I checked the baby monitor again. He was crying. My anxiety surged as my breasts began to leak. I needed to go home. The baby needed his mom more than I needed to chat about celebrities.
“No!” my friends pleaded when I told them I was leaving. “It’s your first night out! Stay until 9!”
“I really have to go,” I insisted, and then I hurriedly exited the scene.
Driving back over the bridge, I felt torn. On one side was the allure of returning to “normalcy”—the connections, excitement, and overwhelming chaos of the outside world. On the other was the cocoon I had created, filled with its beautiful simplicities and occasional monotony. Like everyone else, I was racing back to a regular life, a relief for many reasons. But how quickly could I expect myself to bounce back from the fog of pregnancy and postpartum amid a global pandemic?
I’m learning that the answer is: not too quickly. I need to be gentle with myself. I may not want to live like a pioneer woman forever, but having navigated postpartum twice during a pandemic, I find the fast-paced, hyperactive world I once thrived in to be a bit overwhelming. Periods of survival change us. We emerge with different goals and priorities, shedding what we no longer need or what isn’t sustainable.
When I returned home, everyone was asleep, including the baby and my partner. I wandered around my quiet house, which now felt oddly foreign, almost like a separate entity. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat alone in the darkened living room.
“Missing you guys!” I texted the group back at the restaurant. And honestly, I was.
For more insights on navigating similar experiences, check out this other blog post or visit this authority on the topic. The CDC also offers valuable resources for pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This article chronicles a mother’s experience of anxiety while re-entering the social world after having children during the pandemic. It highlights the conflicting feelings of longing for freedom and the instinctual pull to return to her children. The narrative captures the struggle of adjusting to new realities after periods of survival and emphasizes the importance of self-compassion during this transitional phase.