A quick glance at my bookshelf reveals all secrets. What secrets might these be? That I have an insatiable interest in the history of exploration and human endurance. Books about Everest, Arctic expeditions, archeological searches in harsh environments… they are my jam. I obsessively read survivors’ tales and pieced-together accounts of doomed journeys. I cannot get enough of what humans will do, because they can.

One fascinating aspect that pops up often is explorers coming adrift. And while, yes, becoming adrift physically (meaning lost) happens often, what I’m referring to is when the mind goes adrift. When there is a disconnect with reality. It often happens on long journeys with few markers to tether oneself. This can cause some people to go completely mad. Others fight through it by finding little ways to remind themselves of the world beyond their ship/tent/small group.

How does this relate to what I learned throughout this pandemic?

Other than short trips out (more in recent days, but still very regulated and careful), I have lived, worked, existed entirely in my house since March. I, thankfully, still have a job. My commute is now a walk up a flight of stairs. My breakroom is my kitchen. My once 10-minute jaunts through the streets surrounding my work’s office building have become me doing dishes or little chores.

Pretty much every day is exactly the same.

And I became adrift.

Sure, I’m a hermit by nature, but with work transitioned from a shared office to my lonely second-floor, I lost my tether. Zoom meetings and Slack conversations did little to help. I knew people existed, but I didn’t know where I existed.

I live in New York (upstate, not the city). We were hit pretty hard. In the early days, I obsessed over the news. I worried constantly. I have an autoimmune disease. Every time I had to get groceries, I fretted that I would catch the virus. I tried to limit leaving my house as much as possible. Because of this monotony, other than small reminders through work, I rarely knew what day it was. A Monday felt like a Friday, and a Friday felt like a Monday. Life became an endless cycle of worry, confusion, anger, and sadness.

I felt like I was going crazy. I couldn’t focus on work. And writing? Well, that gif of Kristin Bell laughing and then crying is the perfect representation. Thankfully, I had a finished novel to query, but all attempts to put pen to paper (or in my world, fingers to keyboard) felt hollow. I’d stare at the screen for a long while before just switching over to Twitter.

I wrote nothing.

I only had reams and reams of blank (digital) paper to show for the time I put into writing.

Then I made a decision… to both let go and embrace.

I first let go of the guilt I felt over my anxiety. The world is effed up right now, and it’s okay to have anxiety. Just admitting that helped a lot. At least I stopped worrying about worrying.

Next came the unhealthy news obsession. Sure, I still keep abreast of the news, but I stopped attempting to follow minute-to-minute updates. I let go. Finding out the latest scoop wouldn’t help the immediate situation. It wouldn’t ensure safety while shopping for my comfort foods (french fries and ice cream). I decided it can wait, and limited the time I spent scrolling and hoping for hope. And now, if I feel overwhelmed with the news coming out, I take a step back and not let myself drift into a downward spiral of “wtf’s.” (Instead, I go on a downward spiral of cute animal videos… much healthier, in my opinion.)

And most of all, I embraced being mentally adrift.

I embraced the realization that it is difficult to focus and stopped beating myself up over that fact. I couldn’t expect that I would have the same process that I once had. I accepted that it’s okay to drift.*

I no longer feel bad that I may start reading four different books before falling on one that I actually finish. Last year, I would probably have sludged through and tried to finish the book before heading to the next. Now, I’d rather spend my time enjoying a book, instead of stressing over finishing one I didn’t immediately connect with.

I’ve adopted the same mentality with my writing.

I have started two different books during the pandemic that I have abandoned. In the past, I would feel awful about giving up after a chapter or two, but times have changed. I celebrated the fact that I wrote but accepted that it wasn’t time for those stories. Allowing myself to drift freed me from anxiety.

Nowadays, I spend a lot of time workshopping and worldbuilding in my head before even attempting to write. Allowing myself to not feel like a failure for imagining instead of typing has helped to shift my mental state to a more positive one. Relieving the pressure enables me to feel more creative and less exhausted.

Yes, this all means that I have a lot of false starts, but the acceptance of the drift has allowed creativity to return. And this extends beyond just writing. For the first time, in a very long time, I’ve acquired new materials to return to creating sculptures.

Times have changed. In reality, they probably won’t ever go completely back to how they were before the pandemic. I’m trying to evolve and find my new normal. How long will it take to find this? I have no idea.

But in the meantime, I’m quite alright with the drift.

*I recently started listening to a band named “Creeper,” and I find myself singing one of their lyrics repeatedly to myself. “When your friends sing ‘Born to Run,’ baby, resist, ‘cause we were ‘Born to Drift.’” It’s starting to be my current mantra of acceptance in this day and age.

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