I sat in the driver’s seat, idly observing as a masked stranger approached my car and tapped on the trunk. I hit the release button, watching him quickly toss a plastic bag inside, slam the trunk shut, and dash away without a word. The whole scene felt surreal, almost dreamlike. On my drive back from the store, I found myself questioning, “Is this really happening?”
It felt like I was living in the initial scenes of a horror film; nothing catastrophic had happened to me, yet a strange unease had crept into my interactions with the outside world. These past two months have felt like a brewing storm beneath the surface of our normal family life, leaving me with a lingering sense of incompleteness.
Initially, I thought the outside world seemed so surreal because of the faces I rarely see. Sure, I’m not a character like Will Smith in I Am Legend, completely alone in a city, but it’s striking how few genuine interactions I’ve had. There are remnants of life—cardboard boxes delivered to my porch by unseen hands, a soccer ball abandoned in the yard, our eight-year-old neighbor too scared to retrieve it. Meals come from restaurants, ordered and prepared by people I don’t see. One evening, I found myself analyzing a receipt with the name “THOMPSON” scrawled in big letters, curious about who had written it. Was I that bored? Perhaps. Was I craving connection? Absolutely.
After my quick errand, I entered the house to the cacophony of my sons bickering over a broken green light saber. Their familiar voices were oddly comforting amidst the quiet chaos of the outside world. Yes, our home has become more hectic since the pandemic began, but it’s anything but silent. My husband and I struggle to find moments to talk privately while navigating our new normal with two young boys. Outside these walls, I miss the simple joys of daily conversation: the friendly chats with baristas, the exchanges with other parents at drum lessons, the small talk with moms at school. Those fleeting moments recharged me as an extroverted stay-at-home mom and connected me to my community.
Worse still, my rare live encounters have lost their luster, now overshadowed by anxiety and implication. There are partitions between me and the cashier at the grocery store. Neighbors cross the street to avoid close contact during walks. When I last ventured out to pick up dinner, I waited outside until a customer finished his transaction inside. Just three months ago, my boys and I felt fortunate to live in such a safe neighborhood, but now, I question the motives of everyone around me—even my own.
Virtual interactions offer a slight reprieve. My six-year-old chats with friends via Google Classroom, their faces reduced to glitchy pixels. I watched my eight-year-old navigate brief conversations amidst the noise of twenty other kids at home. Zoom dinners are nice, yet the invitation reminders highlight the app’s intended use. During a Zoom game night, when a friend stepped away for a moment, I found myself staring at her empty chair, the absence only deepening my longing for real-life connections.
My unease has lingered since March, a peculiar sensation that life isn’t quite real. One evening, while attending a Zoom gathering with former students from my years of teaching, I noticed one of them—now thirty-two—pressed his palm against the screen to say goodbye. In that moment, the source of my anxiety became clear. I realized that those I cherish are inherently tactile. We greet each other with hugs, console each other with embraces, and share joy through high fives. Even in the classroom, I communicated through touch—handshakes with students, pats on the back, and hugs on graduation day.
It’s well-known that touch is the first sense a baby develops in the womb, and that a caring touch can promote growth in children and offer comfort to adults. While I understand everyone has different needs for physical connection, I can’t shake the fact that more than anything, I miss touch. I want to hug my sister to ease the ache of separation she feels from her children. I want to shake hands with our principal and teachers to express gratitude for their tireless efforts. I long to hold my dad’s hand as he reminds me that nothing lasts forever. I want to watch my boys run hand-in-hand with their cousin Mia, sharing laughter as they play on the lawn.
People often talk about “when this is over.” Will we feel safe traveling “when this is over”? Will we feel secure sending our children back to school “when this is over”? I honestly don’t know, as much depends on expert guidance. What I do know is that my feeling of incompleteness will fade when I can replace touch screens and touchpads with genuine, human touch once more.
For more on navigating these changes, consider checking out this blog post.