This post was originally written for subscribers of the daily taryn, a daily email newsletter/writing project . Now's the perfect time to join, so I'll hold while you do so here. Love u.
Dear Coronavirus,
Oy. Hello, you. Let me start off by saying, your rise to fame is unmatched, so congrats. I was going to say, “don’t forget us little people,” but I’d rather go unnoticed if that’s alright with you. Also, you’re a bit confusing. You’re either the worst virus that’s ever happened — “a beast we can’t control” — or you’re just another strand of the flu with a very spooky name and an overworked PR team. Regardless, you’re surely somethin’. I don’t know how something of a something you are, but you’re doing a lot and it’s making me think.
You’re making me think about the fine line between fragility and durability. Of being weak and being strong. Of delicate and tough.
On fragility
On one hand, you’re showing the world how fragile we are. A house of cards, really. One new virus without a quick cure spreads like wildfire to 20+ countries, claims thousands of lives, breaks the stock market, and sells out hand sanitizer everywhere. One virus that’s making lines at Costco a nightmare. Causing families to cancel vacations they’ve saved for and planned for for years. Forcing people to stay home from work. Missing weddings. Calling home to make sure, for the 10th time, that your 60+ year old parents really are washing their hands. Achieving what every dermatologist has worked their lives for — a world where people touch their face less.
It’s crazy. One new thing and boom — people are worried. Like, truly, truly worried. And it all happened so fast — like a lit match falling on a newspaper trail around the world.
So wild. So fragile. And it makes you feel really, really small and out of control.
On strength
The only thing that’s not making me crack is thinking about the fact that I’m here. I’ve made it because every one my ancestors has made it through every single thing to get me here. I’ve written about this before.
About how many things my ancestors have overcome through strength and the being at the right place at the right time. At dodging death or overcoming it. At surviving through disease. Disaster. Financial crisis. Bumpy planes that they really thought were going down. Through really hard days and weeks and months and years where they wondered if they’d see the light of day.
Bill Bryson says it better:
Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result — eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly — in you.”
Strength, durability, toughness at all the right times. Surely, a flu named after a sub-par beer won’t take me out now.
Okay. THAT said…
Here’s what I’ll be doing to avoid you, dear Coronavirus, from taking up too much of my thoughts.
Focusing on what’s in my control and letting go of what’s not.
Washing my hands often and for 20 seconds. Easy, because I, unlike apparently every other barbarian in the world, wash my hands often already.
Telling everyone I love them — yes, because there’s a weird spooky pandemic happening and who the fuck knows if I’m next — but moreso because you should always tell people you love them because duh. Life is fragile. Goes by in a blink.
Staying healthy now so I’m healthy when it counts. I’ve been back on my fitness/clean routine lately and it’s giving me so much confidence and comfort knowing that I’m prepping my body for when it needs extra armor. Feels good. It’s also almost summer, so this is a selfish “oh my god it’s almost bathing suit weather” move.
Lastly, I’m saying thanks. Thanks to you, you stupid virus, for reminding me of how fragile we are and how strong we are.
Alright coronavirus. Please enjoy this letter, and please do not write a letter back. I’d be very upset, wouldn’t open it, and would surely return to sender. Then get back to washing my hands.
Hi. Thanks for reading this — it actually means the world to me. Now that you're on a roll of making me happy, I'd like to give you 2 options to keep the fun going. 1) If you'd share this with someone or a feed of someones, or 2) you joined my newsletter. If that's not your thing, I'll love you regardless, but I'll do some middle school love letter journaling about you if you do either. Head here to join my list of gorgeous subscribers.