ALEX HOBEN
photo editor
alexandra.hoben@my.tccd.edu

My experience with this pandemic has left me empty and tired, but I refuse to be apathetic to its still present dangers.

Here’s a fun fact: at the time this paper is released, it will be two days away from the two-year anniversary of COVID coming to Texas. Well, maybe it’s not fun, but it’s definitely a fact.

Since that day, COVID has become a silent monster, lurking in our social spaces and striking indiscriminately, and I’m sick of it. Even before being hired to work in the newsroom, COVID was a constant in my life.

I would look at social media only to see reports of people my age dying suddenly. I would wake up excited to go out but then have the reality of the world come crashing down around me when I’d turn and see discarded masks on the dresser. I went two years without hugging my sister, telling myself it was for the best. Even now, two years later, it’s still hanging over my shoulder.

I think about it in the most innocuous of actions. When there’s the slightest urge to sneeze, I immediately think about where I’ve been and who I’ve been around in the past few days, then have to tell myself to calm down. 

But I can’t calm down. Because there’s a chance I’ll catch it. If that happens, then I could bring it into my immunocompromised household, and it’ll be my fault. This downward spiral has been my mindset for so long that when I found the anniversary date, it felt like an insult.

Even with the decreasing cases and vaccines, there’s still a sense of never returning to normal. It’s why I still take every precaution available, even if some see it as redundant now. At least it gives me security in knowing I’ve done all I can for the safety of my family.

I’ve heard people say the only way out of this pandemic is for all of us to get it, and while we may lose people in the process, it’s all for the greater good. To me, this belief is one of the consequences of living in a two-year pandemic-ravaged world.

This virus has taken away the ability to see an individual instead of just a number. Each numeral is a real human that had connections and relationships, but for reporting purposes, has been reduced to a digit.

These digits still haunt me because what if I, or one of my family members, become just a number? How can I reconcile this terror with the notion that everything will be fine if we all just get it and mourn those who are unlucky?

I have another fun fact: recently, my sister who’s prone to getting sick, called in a panic, saying she’s felt terrible for a week and can hardly taste anything. Well, it’s not fun, but it’s my reality.

COVID continues to be a monster that lurks two years later. Even if the majority have become accustomed to its presence, I just can’t.