Learning to Let Go: An Introspective Essay & Photo Story
by Gabby Estlund
Emails from the University of Iowa started rolling in by the middle of March with subject lines and headers repeating: “In this unprecedented time, it is in the best interest of students, faculty, and staff that we…” followed by the announcement of another closure, another cancellation, another slice of the bittersweet spring semester taken right from under my nose.
“In a world that’s normally speeding away from me, it was suddenly right up against me. I was left with my thoughts and my own body, both of which felt immensely heavier in my tiny apartment.”
All the way back in late February, a few weeks before businesses and buildings started shuttering, online communities were frenzied and scatterbrained. I was drained. Collective dread and anxiety surrounding the daunting repercussions of COVID-19 bombarded the media. The energy of my little bubble was supercharged with emotion, but from a distance, the U.S. had not yet become the epicenter. I spent several days in a tug of war with myself over whether I should harbor guilt for reveling at all the extra time I’d have on my hands while it seemed like the rest of the world was crashing and burning. I was afraid of falling into a dark depression, an anxiety-riddled lifestyle with the upheaval of life as we know it. I was constantly on edge, I couldn’t focus, and very quickly I realized I was lugging around that same looming cloud of dread and anxiety as was ever-present online. I knew I needed to remove myself from the internet blackhole that was fueling my uneasiness. I couldn’t become any more of a zombie to the 24/7 news cycle than I already was.
I should clarify here that I still go online. I’m an artist, a college student, and most importantly, a human being. I still enjoy connecting with people, briefly checking on the state of the world every few days, and scrolling just to scroll. But, I’m trying to be more intentional with my time on social media now. I am extra aware of the material I’m allowing in my life and the material that I allow into others’ with my own postings. I hesitate before clicking on news, before posting on social media. Now, more than ever, I find it immensely helpful to do these things with intention, because the same tool—the omnipotent internet—used for connection with others and to project hope for the future will also be the main suspect in the demise of my mental health if I let it. Call it my very own echo chamber or filter or whatever you’d like. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be online at all. But, because I am part of the 21st century, I can’t shake the idea of it being necessary to be connected at all times, especially considering I live in Iowa City alone. It’s a vicious cycle.
“In the last weeks of March, the pandemic became more serious. It was easier to see it for what it was.”
In the last weeks of March, the pandemic became more serious. It was easier to see it for what it was. School moved online, toilet paper suddenly shot to the top of everyone’s shopping lists, and the first case of COVID-19 was reported in the county where I live, and later, in my hometown where my family resides.
I live in a one-room basement apartment by myself with low ceilings and a kitchen that’s about ten feet from my bed. In a world that’s normally speeding away from me, it was suddenly right up against me. I was left with my thoughts and my own body, both of which felt immensely heavier in my tiny apartment. I didn’t sign my lease with the intention to inhabit it as much as I have in the past month, but despite a lack of physical space, it’s given me plenty of thinking room to recognize when I’m sliding into a negative headspace. Anxiety in the form of repetitive questions ricocheted around my mind for the first couple weeks. In a time when control was hard to come by, I quickly recognized that I could regain a small amount of that control by facing my worries, by answering difficult questions each day as best I could. How will I spend my days? How will I chart these uncharted waters? Am I okay?
Reflecting on these questions, among others, has become the focal point of my quarantined life, something I hope can be a more ritualized practice for me when this is said and done. In isolation, I’ve had to face myself. I am thankful for this.
At the start of quarantine, intrusive thoughts almost convinced me I should be miserable, or in despair, guzzling some cocktail of suffering. I could mime the social media garbage dump and say something like ‘there's no right way to feel.’ In reality, I don’t quite know what to say. I feel wrong saying I'm glad to be in good health and to have a stable living environment because my heart aches for those who cannot say the same. I feel wrong saying so many things about all of this—but I feel right in saying that I am learning to let go. Grief and guilt flitter through my mind every now and then, and I let them; I have good days and not-so-good days, and I don’t fight either.
Gabby Estlund for Fools Magazine