When I hit 41 last August, I was on a long-overdue getaway with my partner and our two kids, exploring the majestic Redwoods in Northern California. I felt a wave of optimism wash over me—I’d just gotten my hair done, work wasn’t overwhelming me, we were managing to stay afloat six months into the pandemic, and I had rekindled my passion for writing after years of being consumed by parenting. I glided through the fall, buoyed by the comforting scents of cinnamon candles, homemade pumpkin donuts, and the hope of a favorable election outcome. In the back of my mind, I believed things would improve, thinking that by the holidays, we would be on the upswing, even though deep down I knew that was wishful thinking.
Yet, Thanksgiving passed, and a surge of cases pushed us back into a harsh reality. As 2021 rolled in, it brought along the heavy baggage of 2020, leaving us feeling stuck, with the promise of vaccines complicated by new variants and in-person schooling becoming an elusive dream.
As this slow COVID saga unfolded, I began to feel the weight of aging. My sedentary lifestyle led to sciatica, wrinkles became more pronounced, and I found gray hairs in unwelcome places. Then, last week, a note from my doctor confirmed my fears: “Your labs show elevated cholesterol, so I’m starting you on a statin. We’ll recheck in two months.” Well, great.
I always figured I might be the type to have a mid-life crisis. I often find myself obsessing over whether I chose the right career or if I’d be happier in a more creative or fulfilling role. Even though I adore my kids and believe they’ve enriched my life immensely, being trapped at home with no end in sight—no school events, no dinners out, no vacations—makes me question, “Is this all there is?”
In my 20s and 30s, it felt like I had a lifetime ahead to figure out happiness. At 31, when I married my husband, it seemed the world was our playground. We could travel, build exciting careers, and maybe have kids someday. But the years flew by, filled with travel, pregnancies, house moves, and then we hit a COVID wall and have been stuck ever since. Now, sitting on top of this wall, I look back at the years since my oldest was born and wonder, “What happened? I barely remember it.” And I gaze forward, contemplating, “Is there more to life on the other side, or are we stuck here indefinitely?”
I know time hasn’t stopped, as I see the days flick by on my calendar and the holidays come and go. Yet, it feels like nothing has truly changed, and every day feels the same. Sometimes, I fear I’ll be perched on this wall forever.
Recently, while driving with my sister, she shared, “I was on the most interesting Zoom call last night. Six of my friends were venting about their frustrations at work, their relationships, or where they live. One is contemplating a big move across the country, worried she might never return to her city. Another just ended a long-term relationship. Everyone’s struggling right now.”
My husband and I have started discussing a potential move back east, lamenting the high cost of living in the Bay Area as several friends have left due to soaring home prices and wildfire smoke. Zillow browsing became my new pastime as I tried to escape the doom of the news, obsessively searching for a new home, a fresh start. Then we escaped to the mountains for a few days, and the crisp, cold air snapped me out of my daze. I had convinced myself I needed to uproot my life to feel progress, fearing stagnation would leave me as lifeless as a still shark.
In that car ride, I confessed to my sister, “I’m in the same boat. It’s like I’m experiencing a COVID mid-life crisis.” I reassured her we likely weren’t moving, much to her relief. “Can you believe I almost sold my house and ran away?”
In the early pandemic days, many coped with their own crises by taking up new hobbies. “I’ll learn to bake bread!” Millions invested in spin bikes or treadmills to escape through exercise. Others remodeled their homes or panic-bought furniture to refresh their spaces.
In this state of unrest, I often find myself in the kitchen, chopping carrots or stirring soup, questioning why I feel so unsettled. I have so much to be grateful for—my kids, my home, my family—but something feels amiss. I know others face far worse struggles. I sift through work stress, physical ailments, and weight gain, but none of that fully explains this underlying feeling. I dwell on frustrating tasks at work, then pick up my phone and scroll through Zillow, seeking something better or simply different.
So, what now? Should I take drastic measures, uproot my family, and buy a farm in Oregon just for the sake of change? Should I explore work that stimulates a dormant part of my brain, something to look forward to? Do I plan a vacation for six months down the line and hope it materializes? I need to break through this mental roadblock that distracts me and compels me to search obsessively for a solution. Or should I continue to wait, appreciate what I have, and accept that there’s no perfect answer?
We’re all grappling with this void, seeking anything to alleviate that now-familiar sense of emptiness and anxiety. Logically, I know there must be an end, but for now, I suppose I’ll just remain perched on my wall, scrolling through Zillow.
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