March 6th, 2020: I posted my first-ever blog. After a week of careful crafting color schemes, a very pink photoshoot with my roommate (thanks, Holly), and endless brainstorms of rejected ideas for what to write about, I posted “6 Healthy Coping Mechanisms for Stressed Out College Students.”
Pre-pandemic Meag was full of excitement about this new form of public writing.
Meaghan Emily Writes began with a college course. My professor for my Career Prep for Writers class assigned us a 6-week social media and blogging project in order to teach us student writers about establishing our brand online. From mind-mapping to navigating website design, this was new territory for me, and at the time, I saw it as yet another moving piece to an already challenging course.
One year later, this blog is a blessing I wish I had more time for.
March 6th 2021: I slept until 10:30am, tied my twice-as-long curls back into a ponytail, and mentally prepared to face a growing pile of clean sweaters for the third day in a row. A Dunkin run got me behind the wheel of my car for the first time in a week, and a double-masked Walmart trip for Cheez-Its and chapstick with my mom gave me a reason to wear jeans.
At times, basic hygiene can be difficult; there is nowhere to be, no one to see, and no reason to look any more than almost presentable most days. My maskne breakouts lead me to develop a detailed skin care routine, so sometimes a clean face and a messy bun has to suffice. Every few days, I remember a friend I forgot existed for a moment and consider reaching out - it seems I only stay in touch via Snapchat story replies, Facebook reactions, and the occasional “you okay?” text when I realize it’s been a while since I’ve heard from a loved one. I miss all of my friends, especially when I see photos from last year.
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My friends used to call me crazy when I told them I preferred the Spring semester. Fall’s orange leaves and early evenings could never compare to the blooming of buds on trees and the feeling of breezy sunshine for the first time in months. Plus, I always took poetry classes in the Spring.
This year, the birds are chirping a little louder each day, but I can’t shake the mourning of a year lost to the unforeseeable. I will likely turn 22 before I see the inside of a bar. I will never live on campus again. I will be lucky to step foot in Bates Hall, the building that housed the English students, professors, staff, and extracurriculars I miss so much.
One year ago, I left campus in a rush on a Thursday night after a club meeting. My car was packed and parked in a faculty spot, and I worried about getting ticketed when I ran to my room to retrieve a cranky Winston, already in his cat carrier. I uttered quick see-ya-later’s to my roommates and friends, opting to skip my Friday psychology class for a hair appointment, packing, and swimsuit shopping before a trip to Fort Myers Beach, Florida.
In the airport, I saw fellow college students I recognized from campus. My sister and I were embarrassed on the plane as the only people wearing masks for miles, but this was merely a precaution taken to make my grandparents feel safer about us staying with them. The day we arrived in the humidity-soaked sunshine state, Massachusetts had only a dozen cases; four days later, our plane landed us in a bleak state of emergency.
It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
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Each day is another episodic time warp only slightly different than the day before. Zoom fatigue - which was once a wild concept - is routine. My brain functions at half capacity most of the time, and I spend more time attempting self care activities than ever before.
Now, the days are getting longer, which is a blessing and a curse. Each week, I look forward to the warmest day only to stay inside in front of a screen that plays textbook pages or Schitt’s Creek reruns. Each time I set a plan - I’ll go to Target tomorrow or I should go for a walk - the day passes by too quickly for me to cherish. I repeat it every 24 hours or so.
The last time I watched the seasons change from winter to spring at home, I was a senior in high school. I’ve made every possible effort in the last year to change my childhood bedroom into some resemblance of a dorm room, but the picture outside my window is a constant reminder of the year I lost.
My college experience reached its peak: my roommates and I were finally a happy group of three, as we binged Netflix reality shows over local boneless wings and daydreamt for hours on Zillow. For the first time in my college experience, my dorm room felt like home.
I realized this only after dragging all of my belongings out at the end of March - it was eerily empty. And again, I re-realized it when I moved back to campus for the big senior year, only to feel more homesick than I had in years - except, I wasn’t missing home. I missed the way things were in February 2020.
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When my Career Prep for Writers class met on Zoom for the first time, fellow students voiced their lack of motivation, their inability to focus, and their frustrations that the only thing to write about for their blogs was this pandemic. My professor listened to every grievance, quickly re-evaluated her syllabus given this new age of Covid-induced trauma, and reassured us that writing about the pandemic could serve as a means of documenting a moment in history if we chose to do so. Now, as I read my blog one year after I started it, I see what she meant.
Let’s take a trip down good-ol’ naive memory lane, shall we?
March 13th, 2020: I offered tips for mental wellness during a pandemic. I recounted my time in Florida, seeing an immediate juxtaposition between there and home when we wandered the empty, plastic-covered airport after landing. The tips are all still relevant, but I know now that they are easier in theory than in practice.
March 20th, 2020: I challenged myself and readers to build 30 minutes of creativity into their daily schedules. A year later, I find it difficult to tap into my creativity, and I’m too bogged down with a difficult semester that’s showing no mercy to direct my energy elsewhere. Past Meag was better at time management and optimism, but I guess that’s what a year of watching the world ignore the guidelines you’re desperately trying to follow will do to a person.
March 27th, 2020: I compared the pandemic to climate change via pointing out the all-too American trend of disregarding science. This is still too relevant.
And so on through April, May, June, July, August, and September
The posts continued each Friday, some of which were sparked by a must-write idea and others desperately drafted over and over with feelings of uncertainty in the subject. It’s easy to see the shift in tone from hopeful - it’ll all be over before we know it if we flatten the curve! - to desperate - please, I’m begging you, a mask won’t kill you. From March through September, the routine remained the same as topics changed drastically from cat birthday parties to defunding the police to expressions of gratitude.
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As for this post, I’m not sure how to categorize it. Perhaps:
Nostalgia. Mourning A Year Lost. Time Warp. Gratitude. Regret. Political Pleas to Listen to Science (Again). Writing About Seasons. Longing for Creativity. Longing for Poetry. Longing for Time Machines. Thank You to Readers.
While I am unable to write each week for my blog right now, I look forward to a time when I can. If you’re still here reading, thank you. Cheers to one year.
Love, Meaghan Emily Writes
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