I knew I had been exposed to someone who had covid. I hoped that the many boosters I had had would be enough to protect me, but when the new cough started and persisted through the night, I knew it was time to test. 

So I did. Twice. Because after a month spent writing about acceptance, it apparently remains something I have to work on. Which is probably why I chose to spend time on it. It’s still potent for me.

It’s always easier to see something in others than in ourselves.

I watched my thoughts as they slithered from acceptance to denial and back again. Watched as I performed a second test, as though the first one, positive almost immediately, wasn’t enough. (Hey, I lifted it up during the test, which you’re not supposed to do, it could have invalidated the test. Or not.)

For every person out there saying the pandemic is over and COVID is no big deal, there’s at least one other who is aware that sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s deadly or debilitating. 

It’s easy to think “I’m healthy, so that won’t be me”. But that’s not the same as knowing it to be true. 

It didn’t feel like the flu to me. It felt worse, more foreign and unfamiliar. And after 2 1/2 years of watching the death toll and the long COVID articles, I couldn’t help thinking about my immune system, altered by medications to keep rheumatoid arthritis in check, and I felt vulnerable. Which is seriously one of my least favorite feelings. 

It’s a practice, this learning to accept what life throws at you and responding from a place of grounded peace, repeatedly closing the gap between reality and what we wish it could be. 

In the meantime, I will be here, enjoying my deep breaths, without a hint of cough, because I can. And that’s something I don’t take for granted.

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