It was a Friday, and we were told to use the afternoon to prepare our lessons digitally for the next two weeks and to get what we needed out of our classrooms. At that point, there was no timeline for our return. All that any of us knew was that we didn’t know.

I was alone, single for nearly a decade, and a middle aged empty nester. The children were off at university. I went home to an empty apartment each night, and I was miserable.

For over a year, I have been working with a therapist whom I have never met. Over fifty hours spent divulging to her my innermost secrets and fears, revealing so much of the rawness of who I am, and I have yet to sit in her company.

When the world shut down, so did I. Not leaving my home for nearly three months, it took a drive around town with my hubby and two sons on Mother’s Day 2020 to see the world was still moving, even though it looked and felt drastically different.

At some point I imagine every new mother must have a sense of feeling trapped; leaving the house with a newborn is akin to training for an Olympic sport, however, not having a choice to leave, or the only choice being to potentially expose your vulnerable baby to a serious virus leaves little room for the freedom of choice.

As I dip my toes into this next season of unknowns, one thing I’ve realized is that as an anxiety sufferer I must be intentional about making choices that help me find peace.

I admittedly have spent most of our time at home telling my children “it isn’t a big deal,” “we’ll do that another time,” or “this is not worth being upset about.” Except for one thing: it is all worth being upset about to them. My kids are grieving.