On June 6, 2021, my family and I went back to church for the first time since March 8, 2020. That made it almost exactly 15 months since I stepped foot inside of a church—65 Sundays that I occupied my time with something other than the thing I did each Sunday since I was born.

Years ago, I came across this sentence written by the Sufi mystic and poet, Rumi: “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”

This past Thanksgiving, though different, was perfect. Because we weren’t able to invite friends or extended family, I assumed it would feel less special, less festive.

I’m not doing well. I feel as if I’m walking through a very, very dark—pitch dark—valley. The pandemic was already enough to make me feel despair. But then, on top of that, California went through a series of heatwaves.

My brother was recently in the market for a new road bike and was disgruntled by the fact that many of them were out of stock both in stores and online. This pandemic has made people feeling overly confined and longing for the outdoors.

The pace of my life has slowed down immensely since I left my full-time job. At the same time, the past few months have been fraught with the stresses of moving, settling into a new place, and trying to figure out a new schedule.