I Want to Re-Enter the World at My Own Pace

Artwork by Delia Rogers

By Lauren Chava Rose

I am so grateful to be fully vaccinated. However, I wish it was that simple. As I venture out into the world, I am constantly reminded of how much I have changed. Last year, COVID came in like a wrecking ball and almost took my life. Everything is different now. I used to love going to restaurants and now they terrify me. I used to love grabbing coffee with friends and now I can’t imagine taking my mask off in front of anyone. When I received my second dose of Pfizer, I had high hopes of frolicking through parks and enjoying unmasked picnics. In reality, my re-entry process is far more complicated. I was wholly unprepared for how often these words would fall out of my mouth:

I don’t want to do that. I’m not ready for that. Maybe we should just stick to a phone call. 

I am constantly swirling around out there. 

Of course I miss my friends. I miss my friends so much that I have tried to shove myself into their vaccinated re-entry boxes. Everytime I do that, my body screams, I SAID NO. I have been through enough of these experiences to understand that the cost to me is far greater than any short lived benefit. So, I’m done trying to fit into someone else’s box. Instead, I want to look inside my own box.

Here’s where I am:

I am bursting into tears at the dentist's office when the hygienist asks me to remove my mask.

I am oversharing at Pearle Vision when the optometrist asks me how my year has been.

I am shuffling past unmasked children who are yearning to pet my dog.

I am still reeling from all of the triggers that took place when a friend hugged me without my consent. 

I am crying. A lot.

I am consistently haunted by the way I contracted COVID.

I am pissed off, exhausted, and disheartened. 

I feel differently about people.

I wonder how many of these changes are permanent. 

It turns out that I’m a lot like my dog, Cora. Before I adopted her, Cora lived in a place where there were tons of animals hoarded together and none of them were allowed inside. I learned that Cora had been sleeping on a patch of dirt for her entire life. At 3 years old, this is all she knew. When I took Cora home for the first time, she walked around in disbelief as she explored my 600 square foot coach house like it was a palace. Then, I tried to take her outside. As soon as we entered my private yard, she began shaking and whimpering. I watched with horror as she immediately ran back toward the house. It took me 45 minutes to calm her down. I held her little body in my arms as I gently rocked her like a baby. I thought to myself, yep, this checks out. 

My trainer made it clear that my goal is to provide Cora with a different experience of the outside world. She told me to give Cora tons of treats and positive reinforcement as soon as we get outdoors. She also said that when Cora gets overwhelmed, it’s time to take her back inside. I know enough about processing human experiences of trauma to know that this is exactly right. Healing from trauma means striking a balance between gently expanding our window of tolerance and deeply respecting the moments when our triggers pull us back. It’s a very delicate tightrope walk.

My process is so similar. I relate to Cora as she playfully runs out into the yard hoping for a good time, only to run back screaming. Cora has experienced 3 years of trauma and 8 months of a different life. It will take time to rewire her neural pathways. The same is true for me.

As I attempt to interact with people again, I feel raw and over-exposed. I wonder if it is safe. I have constant flashbacks. My body goes numb. I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. I am making plans and then cancelling them. In short, my re-entry process is no walk in the park. 

A few months ago, I helped Cora walk around the block for the first time. As we made our way toward the edge of the backyard, I watched Cora get increasingly more anxious. As we approached the sidewalk, I bent down to her eye level and said, “It’s ok sweetheart, I’m right here with you. Let’s try to go a little bit further today.” She took an extra step and I gave her a treat. I bent down again and rubbed her back, just the way she likes it. She took another step. Soon, we were walking down the sidewalk. I was cheering like she had just won the Olympics. Cora looked confused and slightly intoxicated as she zigzagged past other people and dogs. I bent down to comfort her. We made it all the way around the block and I couldn't believe it. I thought to myself, this dog is incredibly brave. I am in awe of her.

Every time Cora walks around the block, so do I. It’s easy for me to celebrate Cora in these moments, but I haven’t been able to acknowledge that these walks are also a win for me. Every time I leave my yard, I want to shower myself with positive reinforcement and admiration. When I go a little farther than the day before, I want to pat myself on the back and cheer like I just won the Olympics. I want to re-enter the world at my own pace. I want to repeat these words until they become my mantra: I am incredibly brave. I am in awe of myself. 

I think I’ll start right now.