Both in my work as a social worker and in my own network of friends and relatives, I have observed the wreckage of the past 25 months. Women have asked me, with terrifying urgency, how they can continue to live their lives entirely in their homes when a violent family member renders the home unsafe. I have watched people turn toward substances to ease the pressures of the pandemic, and then enter rehab reluctantly or hopefully; I have listened to their family members and friends recount relapses, the shame and fear making their words all but inaudible.

Those who have worked on the front lines have told me of the abuse they have endured from patients who did not believe in Covid or precautions; they have also shared their frustration at the unending caution of those who had the luxury to remain cloistered for two years. “I’m just so lonely,” a friend confided.

So many of us are broken, bruised, distrustful and longing for warmth. The satisfying bubble of righteous indignation — or even a simmer of anger — about what others have done or failed to do is easier to tap than the sharp pain of grief or the dull ache of prolonged sorrow and worry.