In 1829, young Ralph Waldo Emerson was on the cusp of new possibilities and responsibilities. He had become engaged to Ellen Louisa Tucker, with whom he was deeply in love. (Sadly, their loving marriage would be brief: she died of tuberculosis in 1831.) And in the professional realm, the Second Church in Boston had offered him the job of junior minister.
In a letter to his aunt, Mary Moody Emerson, he expressed his awe upon crossing these thresholds, confessing, “I cannot find in the world without, or within, any antidote, any bulwark against this fear like this, the frank acknowledgement of unbounded dependence.”1
Emerson saw clearly: the depth and possibilities of his life in that moment of great personal change were grounded in his fundamental interdependence with others.
As you may recall, I finally caught COVID in the Spring of this year. Though the contagious phase of infection wasn’t too bad, weeks of brain fog followed. It eventually got better, and I felt mostly “back to my old self” through much of the summer.
But in early September, things changed again. My kids brought home their first colds of the school year, and wildfire smoke from distant fires was in the air. Shortly thereafter, the brain fog returned.
It’s been more than three months now, and Long COVID seems to be the best explanation for what I’m experiencing. The symptoms have changed variously during that time, including brain fog, headaches and physical discomfort, tingling and numbness, and worsening of symptoms following exertion.
My main job during these months has been to discern my ever-shifting limits and ensure adequate rest. Regarding everyday life, I focus mostly on my family responsibilities. Other things, like publishing interesting things about fatherhood, have taken a backseat.
I’m learning the necessity of gratitude.
I’ve been lucky: I know that many other people suffering from Long COVID have had it much worse. I’m grateful that the overall trajectory of my symptoms is toward less suffering and greater freedom. The least I can do is be kind to my body, so that it can heal, and I’m grateful to my family for helping me do this.
I’m also learning the necessity and the power of slowing down, because I cannot heal if I’m operating with fight-or-flight intensity.
I go slow, focusing on what’s most important on a given day. Right now, half-speed is the right speed: if I try to do things at my heretofore “normal” full-tilt intensity, I end up doing things quarter-speed at best, and the flurry of action leaves me feeling miserable. Regular periods of rest and meditation anchor my day, and I’ve been struck by how these practices have the power to ease a headache and settle a foggy mind: I may still feel tired, but I know who I am, and I feel more hopeful within the limits of the moment.
Finally, I’m learning in a deeper way than ever before that I am an interdependent being, through and through. This does not make me less: it makes me whole, and I acknowledge it frankly.
I cannot control my healing: I can only create conditions for it to emerge, and I know that circumstances beyond my control can set me back.
Moreover, I know that my capacity in any given moment, great or small, is grounded in loving relationship. Healing and connection alike are charted through the everyday interplay between picking up my kids from school and helping them understand my need for rest and pause.
To be clear, these truths—the necessity of gratitude, the power of slowing down, and the fact of interdependence—have always been the case. But navigating Long COVID is teaching me how to live more fully in accordance with these truths, without taking them for granted.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, letter to Mary Moody Emerson, quoted in Robert D. Richardson, Jr., Emerson: The Mind On Fire, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1995, pg. 88.