I imagine us as living in the trenches. Especially now, in 2021, when the adrenaline has worn off and our scrambling for meaning has seemingly dissipated. We’re tired of trying to make sense of it all, to find “purpose in pain.” We don’t want another feel-good post or bumper sticker slogan to help us push through. We want to remember that we are more than survivors; we are humans.
For a few weeks now, light has glimmered up ahead. Hands shoot towards the sky to catch the invisible rope that will pull us upwards, onwards. But then the news flickers, the anchor repeats her words. Is this a different script, a different day? Something drags us back and hope is replaced with fury, with rage. Our home is mud and mire. For how long?
It’s a wild juxtaposition if you ask me—us swinging between hope and hopelessness, numbed and pained. How can everything hurt and how can we also feel so little? It’s as if the collective trauma from the past fourteen months has imprinted on our DNA. We feel it al…
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