Life in the Time of Corona
Someday, they'll wonder.
They’ll read about the history: the choices we made; the hardship we faced; the strength we showed as good people suffered. They’ll learn the numbers. They’ll watch the news clips. They’ll recognize timeless pictures yet to be taken — our Dust Bowl mother, our troops at Iowa Jima.
Graphs will show them the staggering economic decline and gradual rebuild. They’ll learn how politics changed, how culture refocused, how stores closed and daily life went digital. But still, our future grandkids will wonder: What was it like living in the time of corona?
Someday we’ll answer them. But what will we say?
A few weeks ago the world was normal. A world of likes and clicks and TikTok views, a world focused on Biden and the Bachelor. We heard rumblings of an outbreak in China, but didn’t even stop to read the link. There were the early signs — an occasional mask, a news report, a handful of cases in the US. We felt the slow crescendo of rising concern: cancellations, conversations, speculation. Disagreements with friends about how bad things actually were. A feeling of surprise as the first few businesses shut down. Then came the week the world changed.
Sports canceled. Schools closed. Economy in free fall. The sudden, alarming realization that this is a Big Deal.
Difficult times lie ahead. We can already feel it — concern for family members, disbelief at it the newest headline, our oddly deliberate breathing while falling asleep.
Someday we’ll share this with our children’s children. We’ll explain how life changed. How virtual socializing felt awkward and experimental at first, but soon became normal, even fun. We’ll explain how we missed our friends but grew closer to our families. We’ll explain how we passed the time. We’ll say we faced each day with courage. We’ll talk about feeling bored. But no matter what we say, they won’t fully get it. How could they understand, without living these heavy days firsthand?
In three short weeks, history has happened.
Before this month, history was for other people. “Who won the debate?” “What did Trump do?” “Did you hear about Iran?” Faraway morsels of medium consequence, perfect to read about, Tweet about, even argue about with friends. While the news churned on, life itself stayed central.
But suddenly, without warning, news and life have become one. In hospitals and supermarkets, history unfolds each day. We’ve lost our typical buffers of time and space.
When separated by time, history is comfortable. A hobby. A trivia answer. When was Pearl Harbor, or which beaches did we storm at Normandy. When you inhale it with every breath, history feels different. It’s both boring and inescapable. We don’t get to close the book or finish the movie. All we can do is go eat lunch, wait another day, and wonder what comes next.
That’s what I notice most about living in history: the raw uncertainty. A distinct sense of just not knowing what will happen. A taste of the unknown stronger than I’ve ever felt before. A black cloud of maybe tumbles around in my mind and spills out in conversation. “Who knows what’s coming.” “I wonder how long until...?” “We’ll have to wait and see.” Books and documentaries tell you what happened in the past, but they fail to mention the giant question mark that parks itself permanently in the future.
Now I understand why picnickers watched the first battle of Bull Run, and World War I troops promised to be home by Christmas. These stories seem silly in hindsight, but in the present, who knew? Uncertainty doesn’t make the final cut of history. Read all you want about the Battle of Britain, but you’ll never know how it felt to endure the summer of 1940 in London: sleeping in subway stations, bombs falling overhead, unsure if you would survive, or if your country would even exist next year.
So we’re left with our own questions, questions with answers that will seem obvious decades from now:
What will life look like in three months? Six months? One year? Will we celebrate the Fourth of July? Will they play football this fall? Will we find drugs that make people better? Will all flights be grounded? Will states close their borders? Will this all seem overblown? What will be the final, terrible number? What will happen to the election? What will China do? What else might go wrong? When can we go to a concert without feeling concerned? When will gyms and barbershops and restaurants reopen? When will kids return to school? When will life feel normal once more?
For now, no one knows. The answers don’t yet exist. But one day, they will, and we’ll share what happens with future generations. They won’t understand how it felt staring into an unknown future with indefinite timelines. But just as we’re blind to past fears, that’s not for them to know. Instead, they’ll learn something far more important: they’ll hear how we pressed on, stayed hopeful, and eventually recovered. They’ll read stories of warriors in scrubs and lab coats, bravely fighting the front lines. They’ll forever remember names of heroes who finally found the cure.
This article is adapted from my weekly newsletter, Future Glance, where I share writing and ideas about how technology is transforming media, education, and governance. Plus, cool stuff I find on Twitter. Click here to subscribe.