I wish I could say that I’ve been one of those people who used the downtime of quarantine to become massively productive. I wish I could say I holed up and penned five epic novels, got completely ripped, and launched a successful business or two. I tip my imaginary hat to the people who can say that – you have my respect, my awe, and my envy.

I could give a list of excuses for why I’m not a pandemic wunderkind. I have many legitimate ones. Like the fourteen cats and kittens someone dumped on our property back in April, when all the vets and shelters were closed. (You can read all about this crazy event here.) I could point out that I have extra responsibilities helping to care for a family member suffering from a debilitating illness. I could complain about how draining and complicated a simple trip to the grocery store has become.

Like I said, I have many valid excuses. But the truth is, I have struggled just to get normal daily tasks done. Tasks that were hardly a burden before this all happened suddenly seem exhausting after so many grueling months of fear and uncertainty. I turned forty last month. I felt sixty-five. This situation has aged all of us, I think. When I wake up each day, I try very hard to be happy. Once in a while, it dawns on me that I didn’t used to have to try.

I’ve had a few pandemic-induced nightmares, all of them variations on same theme: I’m out in public, walking around shopping or whatever, and suddenly I realize I’m not wearing my mask. It’s horrifying. I quickly grab the collar of my shirt or coat and try vainly to cover up my nose and mouth but it’s never enough. Everyone around me is wearing their masks like good citizens, and here I am, completely naked – and not in a fun, nude beach kind of way. Oddly, no one appears to be judging me. But I am judging myself. I am judging myself so hard. I wake up feeling relieved the event never actually occurred, and grateful, because to date I haven’t lost anyone to COVID. The shadow creeps ever closer as more of my community members begin to fall victim, but for the moment I am lucky. The people who’ve watched their loved ones die via iPad screens, those are the folks who have real nightmares.

As this pandemic has dragged on, many things have slipped through the cracks in my life. This blog is one. Writing is another. Exercise would also have to be included on that list. I tried to put on my aerobics DVD one time during the lockdown, only to discover the disc was broken and wouldn’t play. Months of sloth-like inactivity later, I mustered the energy to hunt down a thirty-minute workout on YouTube. I barely survived the ordeal and for days afterward hobbled around with every muscle screaming like I’d been in a serious car accident.

I miss blogging. I miss connecting with other writers and fans. I miss being in some form of decent physical shape. I really, really miss writing on a regular basis.

It is time, slowly and with many faltering steps, to rectify all of these things. There is reason to hope, even under this oppressive cloud of darkness. The scent of spring is in the air, faint but undeniable: promising new vaccines, a new American President, more people doing the right thing and wearing their masks. The end is still a long way off, no question, but it is in sight. And in the meantime, like Luna Lovegood says in the final Harry Potter book, “We’re still here. We’re still fighting.”

So, my friends, let’s carry on.