When everyone started arranging Zoom get-togethers, my world shifted into a kind of balance I hadn’t felt since I first was diagnosed with this stupid illness. We were all meeting in the same ways, doing and not doing the same things. The chance to go to a “party” without using up all my energy just to get there was (and still is) a revelation. I don’t need good balance to have drinks with friends if I’m in my living room. I don’t need a lot of energy if the party I’ve been invited to does not require grown-up clothing, or makeup, or transportation, or standing, or a day to recover. The two-dimensional screen, that glass barrier that healthy people said was keeping their relationships static and imprisoned, was a liberator for me. I finally had freedom from FOMO because everyone was missing out. I also felt free from guilt, perhaps the sweetest freedom of all. To be chronically ill is, for many of us, to be chronically guilty, to vacillate between knowing one’s limitations and thinking that we can magically overcome them by force of will. “Could”s and “should”s do an elaborate tango: I’d go if I could gets entwined with I should go. We think: I should try harder. Could I try harder? I should. During the pandemic, the only shoulds have been to stay put, socially distance, and wear a mask. Find me a person who's chronically ill who hasn't at some point had to stay home, avoid social events, and, one way or another, put on a mask.