It’s day 17 of the COVID-19 quarantine for my family. I know some have been at this longer and others are still catching up, but the sentiments most are sharing tell me we’re all at virtually the same place emotionally – we miss our old lives, we’re anxious about the current state of things, and we’re simultaneously cautious and eager for the future to hurry up and get here.

Welcome to my world.

I’ve told folks from the get-go that my little family of homebodies hasn’t been that rattled by all of this because what the rest of you are calling a “quarantine” we call “Tuesday” (and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday . . .). My boys are introverts – one by choice, one by nature – and my personal well still only has enough in it each day to get me through the “musts” of work and parenting, so my evenings are always quarantine-like. But, as more and more people write about their sense of loss and grief over cancelled plans, the loss of normalcy, the longing for routine and all the little things we took for granted – I developed an overwhelming desire to say, “Welcome to my world.”

There’s no sarcasm in that comment, I promise. I’ve always described what I’m experiencing as a club no one wants to join. But I’ve also yearned for some sense of understanding and empathy from those who can’t wrap their heads around what I’m feeling and why. It’s all I’ve written about for the last two-and-a-half years – mostly because it helps me understand myself better, but also out of an unceasing desire to be more fully known.

So, let me affirm what you’re feeling – whether you’re on day 17 of COVID-19 or day 907 of separation and divorce – and officially welcome you to my world.

My women friends talk about how they’re wearing less make-up and more yoga pants, can’t remember if they’ve showered or not, and are losing track of what day it is. My now-work-from-home friends are scrambling to adapt and develop an entirely new set of skills overnight. I read Facebook posts from people who simply miss physical contact, who can’t recall the last time they went “this many days” without a hug. It’s uncomfortable and exhausting and anxiety-inducing and there’s no end in sight.

Welcome to my world.

You get up and force yourself to shower and get dressed, like it’s any other day, thinking a sense of normalcy might make you feel better. You look for ways to connect with other people – after all, we live in amazing times, when you can connect virtually, if not physically, any time of day or night – but it’s not the same. You give yourself projects and to-do lists and rewards, and ask, “Is it too early to go to bed?” because the days that used to fly by now seem endless. But sleep offers little escape, because you either dream about what’s stressing you most right now or you find you can’t sleep more than a few hours at a time.

Welcome to my world.

All the things you’ve looked forward to, the big and the little – graduations, vacations, the milestones of life – it’s all been cancelled. Your calendar is clear and you can’t even make plans for the future. And those losses happen over and over again, every time you slip and forget that things are different now. You know it won’t last forever, but that’s not how it feels right now.

Welcome to my world.

I’ve been listening to Brene Brown’s new podcast – Unlocking Us – on my walks this week, and she talks a lot about normalizing discomfort. I think it’s fair to say it’s part of my normal now. I wish I could say that makes it easier. It doesn’t. But at least it’s more familiar. And for anyone still trying to figure out why it’s taking me so flippin’ long to bounce back from my other half waking up one day and walking out, “familiar” is one of my food groups – a necessity for daily life. Like air and water and adequate rest.

Growing up, my need for “familiar” was so strong, I found it impossible to enjoy sleeping over at someone else’s house. That didn’t stop me from going to sleep-overs, but I didn’t sleep. As an adult, I seek to familiar-ize wherever I am, as much as possible – from decorating my work space to hauling half my house with me when visit my parents. One blessing of this personality trait is how well it’s prepared me for raising a son on the autism spectrum, but it’s definitely my biggest hindrance to healing after my divorce.

I read something about later-adulthood being comprised mostly of change, goodbyes and endings. We spend the last couple decades of our lives saying goodbye to friends when they die, goodbye to careers when we retire, goodbye to our children as they grow up. For someone whose primary source of comfort has always been the “familiar” that is terrifying. Or maybe by then I’ll have learned to normalize things being unfamiliar.

For now, let me remind all my grieving friends and family what you’ve reminded me for the last 907 days: You won’t feel this way forever. You will get your normal back – if not soon, then eventually. In the meantime, welcome to our new normal. You’re not alone (well, not for long).