In three weeks, it will be March again.
This means, among other things, that a year will have elapsed since we started living in this weird abbreviated existence, mostly in lockdown. It’s been a year of unimaginable suffering for many. At least 481,000 Americans are dead, though likely the real number is higher. There’s the club of people with dead fathers, a club which a handful of my friends have joined. For women and women of color particularly, the suffering has been significantly worse. Women between the ages of 25 to 54 are increasingly dropping out of the work force to take care of their children. My neighborhood is an extremely sad mosaic of closed restaurants and storefronts, each one representing multiple livelihoods crushed.
In some ways, it’s been a year of lost time. Soon, my niece will turn 1 and I still haven’t met her. My teenage son has spent his junior year hiding from his parents in his bedroom. It’s been a year that in some ways barely happened, a year of absence and silence. And, yet, in other ways it has been a year that happened loudly and painfully in the most profoundly disturbing way. Last year, on the final day of February, I returned home from covering the Conservative Political Action Conference in Washington, and I pretty much never left. For months, my only contact with the outside world was circumscribed by the view from the window of my apartment.
Please select this link to read the complete article from Vogue.