As I write this from my couch, nearly a year into working from home due to the pandemic, I am experiencing both burnout and gratitude.
On the one hand, working from the confines of my 750-square-foot rental home, I feel — quite literally — boxed in. The days bleed together as I change from one pair of pajamas to another, staring at a laptop, eyes glazed over, with little actual human interaction or external stimuli. Digital documents, emails, Slack exchanges — everything and everyone has morphed into nothing more than words on a screen. If it weren’t for deadlines and production days and the physical calendar on the kitchen wall where I scrawl notes and reminders, I’d likely lose track of which day was which all together. And I’ll admit that I have on more than one occasion in recent weeks.
Courtney Hedger | Unsplash
Outings are minimal. Necessary items can be ordered online for delivery or pickup. Like clockwork, the mailman arrives, my dogs bark loudly to alert of his presence, and the [insert whatever random thing was purchased] is here without me having to get into my car or brush my hair or speak to another person. The only traffic jams I’ve experienced in a year are the pile-ups that often happen in the small hallway where my three dachshunds scurry under foot to race to their food bowls at breakfast and dinner. They help me keep track of the hours with their internal clocks. But what day is it again? When did I last shower? What’s the point?
It starts to feel a little doom-and-gloom when you realize how the days bend into one another, especially in winter. Those neighborhood walks I so enjoyed in warmer weather apparently kept me sane, or at least somewhat content. The sunshine, the sights and sounds … Now it’s gray and wet and cold, and when will it be spring again? What month is it?
Now on to the gratitude. I am hyper-aware of how privileged I am to have had the opportunity to navigate these hazy, dazed work-from-home days, within the virus-free walls of my tiny house. So many — including the delivery drivers who’ve kept our pantries stocked, our gifts en route to their recipients, our non-essential purchases on our porches — have known no such luxury. So many — including my sister, a single mother of two who is working her way toward an assistant manager position at a local grocery store — can not simply stay home and have the world come to them. The kids must go to school or daycare. Bills must be paid, gas in the car, food on the table. The show must go on, the slog continues, and those who have kept the gears in motion on the outside have had to live their lives the same as they did pre-pandemic. Except while wearing masks eight hours a day. Except while potentially exposing themselves to a deadly virus. There’s an entire segment of our population that does not have a choice.
I want to take a moment to salute every single essential worker. From restaurants to retail, from healthcare to warehouse workers — we see you. I hope with every fiber of my being that each of you stays healthy while you’re out there risking your lives for our Amazon orders and cheeseburgers. I hope that you do not take the virus home to an immune-compromised family member or loved one. I hope that while you’re out there making sure the ships still sail that the people you encounter are showing gratitude and respect. You deserve more recognition than I can give you. The world as we know it could — and likely would — collapse if not for your continued efforts. And I know those efforts are made out of necessity. Thank you for keeping the shelves stocked, preparing food for us, caring for the sick, and delivering whatever it is we think we need while we’re stuck at home.
As I write this, it’s a Thursday afternoon. I’m in a robe and houseshoes. My dogs are piled up around me napping. I am safe. I am healthy. I am grateful.
Shara Clark is managing editor of the Flyer.
Lane Erickson | Dreamstime.com 
