No one ever mandated that you remain home indefinitely. Yet, the insistence on this notion emerges in every online comment section and casual neighborhood chat, precariously poised to plunge into a torrent of frustration.
The phrase “We can’t stay home forever” is often tossed around, like crumbs scattered for birds at the beach. Healthcare professionals plead, while scientists strive to sway politicians who refuse to acknowledge the realities of the situation. The sentiment of “We are all in this together” gradually transforms into a blend of ennui, exhaustion, and impatience—the kind that can stretch a few months into what feels like an eternity. And eventually, many shrug, resigning to the idea that it’s just how it is.
From my vantage point in Florida, where daily Covid cases sometimes approach 7,000 without a second glance, I reflect on the months of isolation measured in missed milestones and lost moments of my children’s formative years. When it’s finally safe to venture out again, will my nine-year-old still crave the thrill of running freely in a playground until dusk? Or have we lost that innocent joy in exchange for preserving his life? And what of my four-year-old, who barely experienced preschool before remote learning took over? Will she ever know the joy of crayons, bulletin boards, and the warmth of a teacher’s presence?
I’m reminded of the insistence that “we can’t stay home forever” as friends gather and case numbers soar, while I see the heartbreaking obituaries of people I once knew. The names of children with bright smiles, now missing their parent, serve as painful reminders of what’s at stake. “I miss you, Mom,” writes a former classmate about her mother, who was just a few years older than mine.
But this insistence grates on me, as it implies that combating a deadly pandemic is somehow more enduring than death itself. Isn’t death the ultimate permanence? The lives lost seem like collateral damage in the pursuit of a fleeting semblance of normalcy, a normalcy that not everyone is willing to fight for. What’s the impact of missing a birthday or family gathering? What if they miss out on those experiences altogether?
We must demand accountability from our leaders who have ignored mask mandates and social distancing, turning a blind eye to constituents in need while their businesses crumble and their families face hunger. As Americans, we’ve been left to navigate this crisis alone, like children in a fragile antique store with no supervision to prevent disaster. It feels as if we’re recklessly racing through the chaos, oblivious to the consequences.
Some mornings, hopelessness washes over me like the dawn. We are the fortunate ones, I remind myself on those challenging days when anxiety weighs heavily. As my family spends month after month indoors, I watch our governor on television, mingling with crowds unmasked at a rally, and I think of friends who are forced back to work, caught in the life-or-death dilemma. I hold my children close, my heart aching for those who have lost parents and for those who are about to face that loss without understanding what it means.
I haven’t seen my mother in eight long months, and I lie awake at night wondering if I ever will again. The dreams she had with my children unravel in my mind: shopping trips, theme park adventures, the promise of sleepovers filled with ice cream and laughter. My kids sleep peacefully, wrapped in the comforting promise that “When this is all over” we will reclaim our lives. I’m willing to bear the weight of uncertainty so that they can stay warm in their comfort.
No one asked you to remain home indefinitely. Your mental acrobatics to justify your choices, framed as safe decisions on social media, may come at the cost of someone else’s life. You wore your mask, but that haircut was essential, or it was just a small gathering—everyone has to make their own choices, right? Yes, and still, we can’t stay home forever.