There will be much written in the years to come about what happened in 2020. We each have our own stories to tell about how we experienced the pandemic and I’m a big believer in documenting our little piece in history. So here’s mine.
This was the year I slowed down – and realised that, for a long time, I had been moving way too fast. Vastly improving my quality of life has been not having to commute. To think I used to spend at least two hours a day travelling to and from work – paying money to get to the place where I earn money – seems ludicrous now! I stayed at home, and started getting enough sleep. Instead of waking up at 5am to drag myself to the office for a 7am shift, I found I could wake up at 6.45am and work from my bed.
And rather than drop a fortune on eating at or around the office and out at dinners with friends, I cooked myself breakfast, lunch and dinner almost every day. I ate what I wanted to eat – lots of fruit and vegetables, fish, wholegrains, salads, smoothies, my grandmother’s recipes. I drank water like it was going out of style, at the office walking to and from the loo wastes too much time – not an issue when WFH! And without the daily assault from city pollution and makeup, my skin cleared up and glowed up to the best it’s been in years.
I was blessed to still be employed, so embraced my empty social calendar and the nothingness of my days off. As well as walking a lot, I took up new hobbies like running, making soaps and candles, I decluttered and redecorated my bedroom/office, I sold things on eBay. I had time to read books – actual novels – something I hadn’t done in years! I binged Tiger King and Emily in Paris and devoured Josie’s daily vlogs and loved watching her start her new life in the Cotswolds. I was inspired by friends launching businesses and I started blogging again. And with all the money I was saving from not commuting and eating out, I treated myself to things like silk pillowcases, AirPods, a better phone, home workout equipment.
I came to cherish the little things. I looked forward to the taste of my coffee in the morning, watching the woodpecker that made a nest in my apple tree, and, of course, my daily walk to Sainsbury’s. I clocked off at 7pm and set off on my walk – the highlight of my day, I would go even if just for a bar of chocolate, which I convinced myself was definitely “essential”. For a long time it was the only time I left my house and saw other people. Then I would come back home, go back into the garden, sit with a Supermalt, and think.
Throughout an impossibly beautiful spring, I took full advantage of my one break in the working day and caught the sun so much I looked like I was on holiday. I have glorious memories of breaks spent in the garden, under blue skies and the blazing sun, enjoying every morsel of a meal I had just made. After, I’d close my eyes, listening to the birds. Other times I would read Game of Thrones or go for a walk and squeal with delight at the sight of a fox in the daylight, before heading back to my room. Back to work.
I am unspeakably lucky to have had all of this as a reprieve from a job that made me cry nearly every day. My work centred, exclusively at that time, around the very worst aspects of the pandemic and its horrific toll on lives around the world. Without things to keep me busy and lift my spirits, especially during that first peak – still having a job (and one that I loved), the wonderful weather, a great big garden to switch off in, banter with colleagues I had never met but now spoke to every day – I can’t say I’d have coped nearly as well in those first few months. Even if it was just for a half hour spent outside eating my lunch, I was blessed repeatedly with a means to forget.
Because there were so many low points. One that stands out in the memory – partly because of how much my own reaction shocked me – was the prime minister’s admission to intensive care. The death toll around that time was close to 1,000 people a day. His chances in ICU were said to be 50/50. I burst into tears as I typed. The situation felt hopeless. As newspapers up and down the country prepared obituaries and packages in case he died overnight, we were all willing for him to recover, which he did.
As time went on and spring rolled into summer and things started to look hopeful, I worried I was becoming desensitised after months of reporting the daily death figures, every one of whom was a person who lived a life and who was loved. We were distracted. We could eat out again, I remember the excitement of the first meal out in a restaurant in months and how strange it felt getting on the tube again. I realised I hadn’t left Wembley in four months and that I’d forgotten how pretty central London is. I met friends for socially distanced picnics and walks, I went shopping and to the zoo, and life resumed some sense of normality. I found myself melting in an insane heatwave and married to my desk fan. I binged Selling Sunset and considered a career in real estate. We could go on holiday.
During the August bank holiday weekend, I escaped to the country with a best friend and in September, to Greece with my mum and brother. It’s a trip I was unbelievably lucky to take and one that will live long in the memory. It was the first time in years that I’d heard people speak Greek – since my grandparents died, the extended family all speaks in English now. I hadn’t even thought about this until I was surrounded by Greek people, with my mum struggling to remember certain words and my brother schooling me on desserts I’d forgotten the names of.
This was also the year something I thought might never happen fell perfectly into place. I reconnected with the love of my life earlier in the year, five years since we went our separate ways and just before the pandemic really took off. It’s now almost a year later, and going strong. There have been ups and downs, long-distance relationships are difficult at the best of times, and the frustration of not being able to plan to meet is hard. But I’ve never been so happy in my entire life, nor have I ever been so excited about the future. So as well as remembering this extraordinary year as the year of Covid, 2020 will, for me, also be the year dreams came true.
With all this being said, the second half of this year has tested my mental health like never before. I have felt depressed in the past but with job uncertainty, compounded by the loneliness and isolation of yet another lockdown and watching the government make a mess of absolutely everything, in the dark weeks of late-autumn I learned what it means to struggle to get out of bed, and to feel like you’re sinking. Nothing lasts forever and with love and support from some very kind people I came out of it and things are looking up again. But I’ve really learned the importance of talking to others – we’re all in the same boat, and people want to help.
Now we’re at the end of this long, strange year and during this quiet Christmas period I’ve been reflecting on how we have all grieved for someone or something. I’ll be the first to admit that I will deeply miss the long pause, the slower, quieter pace of life I’ve become so used to. At times it felt like time stood still. Thinking back to June, and this will sound ridiculous, I remember hand-washing my silk pillowcases and laughing to myself, thinking – when life goes back to normal, how on earth will I ever find the time to hand-wash things? ð At the same time, I’ve never worked so hard and the year has just flown by. I’d like to think I can look back one day and say I made the most of the gift of time I was given.
That being said, what I have missed most, without a doubt, is the company of others. I’ve always been someone who enjoys my own company, but I haven’t hugged anyone in months and I desperately miss my friends. Still, I’ve never felt more loved. For friends who have always called and sent messages, who have laughed and cried on Zoom, who have posted and hand-delivered gifts and care packages; for a boyfriend who makes me feel joy every single day; and for colleagues who truly care, I am so grateful.
Through all the pain and the sadness, 2020 has shown us that the way things were isn’t the way they have to be. And if you’re reading this you’ve made it through, and that’s saying something.
