Looking on the Bright Side: On Feeling Stagnant in a Global Pandemic

Work begins at 8:30 AM. My day begins with me rolling out of bed at 8:20. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, my hair. I don’t bother changing out of my pajamas. Bra? Who needs it. Contacts? I stick with glasses for the most part—they’re non-committal. Breakfast? I’ll deal with it later. No room for a desk in my tiny three bedroom apartment in Brooklyn means I get back in bed and open my laptop. Time to start the day.

Normally, I’m a person who is constantly moving—jumping from place to place, moment to moment. I’m not very spontaneous, but I like to always be doing something. I like being busy; it gives me a sense of purpose. But the pandemic has slowed me down. A lot.

Right before the Covid-19 outbreak, I’d just graduated from my masters program in December. I went on Birthright at the end of the month, I moved, flew to LA to visit a friend. Work was busy as ever. I was excited to finally have a social life again after grad school—I felt I’d earned it.

And then the pandemic hit in the U.S. My company sent everyone home to work, which was great at first.

Now each day blends into the next. I had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that it’s September already. What have I accomplished?

My bed has a me-shaped impression in it from sitting in it so much. I spend my days seeing how many episodes of Love Island I can bear to watch in 24 hours. Work is hard to concentrate on when there isn’t a separation between me time and work time, since me time and work time both take place in the same room.

My heart aches for normalcy, for my friends, my family, for change, for growth. The pandemic has made me feel so… stagnant.

I’m the type of person who’s always known what she’s wanted to do with her life. It’s kind of my thing. I like to think I’m ambitious, career oriented. I’ve had over 10 internships. I’m two years into my first real adult job. I have a master’s degree that I got while working full time. I’m lucky to have always known what I want to do and have the privilege to pursue it. I’m lucky that I get to be busy doing the things I love.

But when you’re used to constantly moving, going after what you want, it’s hard to accept this stagnancy as the new normal.

My dad tells me to look on the bright side. When I talk to him on the phone and I’m having a bad day, he tells me to think of something positive, even if it’s small. But it’s hard to see past things sometimes when there’s no end to this in sight.

I’ve been working on accepting this as the new normal, at least for the time being. I’ve been working on giving myself little things to look forward to each day, whether that’s going for a walk, reading my book, or (you guessed it) watching the latest episode of Love Island.

It’s easier said than done, especially on the bad days. But I’m trying.

[Photo by Jaccob McKay on Unsplash]

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Amanda Livingston

Amanda is a graduate of the NYU Publishing: Digital and Print Media Masters program, currently works at Simon & Schuster in their Education and Library department as a marketing assistant, and loves living in Brooklyn, New York. She's passionate about children's books, writing, and social media. Follow her journey at amandaunderconstruction.com, or on Twitter (@amandarliving) and Instagram (@amandarlivingston).

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Career, Life, RelationshipsAmanda LivingstonSeptember 8, 2020Comment

Looking on the Bright Side: On Feeling Stagnant in a Global Pandemic

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