Before the pandemic, my life was all ladders, no chutes. The future held a formulaic promise: Make good grades; get into college; graduate with a degree; land a job.

Countless aspects of my life (the identities I hold, my supportive family and my access to higher education) have set me up to succeed. I recognize the privilege of such a predictable fate.

Earlier this year, even as COVID-19 swept through China, the only nebulous thing about my future was which career path Id choose. Should I pursue writing as an MFA student or something more practical?

Then, over spring break, while my friends and I contemplated whether to spend our afternoon at a watering hole or on a wine tour, we got the email: In-person classes were canceled for the rest of the semester, and the university advised that we return home immediately and prepare for online courses.

The catch, of course, is that St. Louis feels like home. Im a college senior. My parents, siblings and a handful of friends are back in Dallas, but Ive created a whole life for myself in St. Louis.

So I decided to stay. I moved from my on-campus dorm into an apartment with three other displaced college seniors, and for the first few days we stayed positive. We felt lucky to be young and healthy. This crisis would blow over before we knew it.

The weight of the situation hit us soon enough, though, and realization after realization gave us whiplash. Young, healthy people were dying though by and large fewer and farther between than elderly people or those with pre-existing conditions.

And who were we, anyway, to have nearly written off the pandemic as a nonissue, just because we thought it couldnt kill us? My mother is immuno-compromised. What does that mean for her? Could I return home knowing I might inadvertently put her at risk? How many people will lose parents, best friends, soulmates? How many people will die alone?

We worry over global welfare, wondering how many people will be infected and how long the world will seem so unfamiliar. We consume books and movies contemplating apocalypse, wondering if this is the beginning of the end times.

The urgency weve felt all semester as seniors, to make every second count, has become insurmountable, because what if? What if these goodbyes are forever, and what if the view from the interstate becomes skeletons of abandoned cars, and what if grocery stores run out of food, and what if? Everything was changing before, and everything is changing now, only not in any way that we could have prepared for.

But we know that structures are such that the world wont unravel in a night. What does feel more imminent is a recession. Article after article circulates among my peers. The abruptness of the descent, writes Nelson D. Schwartz in a recent New York Times article, is unheard-of in advanced economies.

Unemployment rates are already skyrocketing, and the pandemic hasnt even reached its peak in the United States.

Im no longer wondering which career path Ill choose, but rather if Ill be able to swing an interview much less a job during this chaos.

Im not attached to growing up, on principle. If I had to work odd jobs to make ends meet for a while, I would be happy doing it. But playing Peter Pan and paying off my student loans are mutually exclusive.

My three college roommates and I wade through worry in the comfort of our apartment, where a fully stocked fridge, the routine of online classes, access to health care and innumerable other factors soften the blow of the pandemic. Our privilege mitigates so much risk of the situation. And still we grapple daily with uncertainty and fear.

We worry about the state of the world about the sociopolitical and economic implications of the pandemic. We mourn for lives already lost and those that COVID-19 has marked to take. We mourn for families fractured and for those displaced because of personal economic crises. We fear for the stability of our futures, of our financial independence.

Then, there are those nuances of the 20-somethings experience. Were mourning those, too. Not even a month into quarantine, Im missing sharing drinks at our local college pub. I miss my friends saying, Try this, as they watch my face pucker when the alcohol hits.

I miss out-on-the-town conversations that break social barriers between school friendships and something more. I miss making plans to meet in the library, where we will study for 10% of the time and socialize for the rest.

When these revelations of missing such experiences first came about, I wondered what kind of person it made me, to spend time mourning these things.

Was it melodramatic to say that it feels a little like heartbreak, to realize it might be months before I next sway against strangers bodies in a bar or house party? Or when I considered the projected timeline of the pandemic and realized that this might be a summer of no first kisses?

But what we are losing, and what we have lost already, is not inconsequential. It is right that we grieve global tragedy. And it is valid to mourn the little things.

Were never getting this time back.

My friends and I are still growing up and away from being college seniors, a time that has been described to us as the best time in your lives by countless adults for as long as we can remember, even as the world takes a pause from what is normal.

Throughout this time, the only way that my peers and I have maintained some semblance of positivity is through solidarity. The weight of the world is especially heavy right now, but its important to remember that none of us is carrying it alone.

Originally posted here:

Graduating into the pandemic world: Fear, uncertainty and a sense of sadness for experiences lost - The Dallas Morning News