The Light in the Middle of the Tunnel

I hope you are resting in bed, cozied up on the couch, or sitting in the shade of your favorite tree. I hope that this email feels like a fresh mug of your favorite drink, sipped side by side with a friend.

The idea for this newsletter came to me on Sunday morning, when I was out for a walk. (A walk! I can go for walks again!) I already spend hours each week writing about Covid-19. I send texts, emails, and messages to support friends, friends of friends, and new online pals in their Covid journeys. I moderate a Covid-19 support group and write its bi-weekly newsletter. I publish on Medium. I don’t have time to do any of this . . . and somehow I do it, anyway.

“I’m going to stop writing about Covid-19 and get back to working on my novel.” I say these words often, but I can’t live them for more than a few days at a time. Why? Because another friend gets sick. I watch the numbers in my county rise. I read yet another post by a long-hauler that is so painful or so beautiful it takes my breath away. And so, I start working again. Not on my novel. On another attempt to reach out and link hands with others who, like me, are stumbling through the rocky, uncharted terrain of long-haul Covid-19.

Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? This is a question that many of us ask.

When my symptoms of Covid-19 began on March 7, it didn’t occur to me to wonder if they would end. 38-year-old yoga-instructing, kale-eating, go-getting athletes do not ask themselves whether there is a light at the end of the tunnel when they get sick with a trifling “flu-like” illness. They just start sprinting ahead.  

As a long-hauler, you probably know that a sprint is just a preamble to a crash. This isn’t the sort of illness that we can run, push, hack, or blast our way through. I’ve learned this the hard way multiple times, and I suspect you have, too. It’s natural to wonder if and when this illness will end. It’s natural to feel grief, anger, confusion, uncertainty, loneliness, anxiety, frustration, or sadness.

I felt some of this darkness as I was walking on Sunday, but more than that, I felt a desire to lift others who are at lower points in their journey. I’m finally beginning to get better, I have a great support system, and I’ve always been a glass-half-full kinda gal. I’m in a good position to be a cheerleader, even if high kicks and splits are way beyond me at present.  

This inner ra-ra-ra was building as I walked down the one-lane country road where I live. Much of the road is surrounded by farmland, but less than a half mile from my house, the road winds away from open fields and into a tunnel of oaks, maples, hickories, and poplars. I love the shade, the cool, and the brilliant circle of sunlight gleaming at each end of the arched canopy: the light at the end of the tunnel.

I can’t remove the dark parts of this journey for you any more than I can remove them for myself. I can’t make promises about the end of the tunnel. Instead, what I hope to offer you through this newsletter are tiny rays of light in the middle of your tunnel. These rays will come as a mish-mash of encouragement, inspiration, humor, self-care strategies, and first-hand experiences, delivered in a weekly email. I’ll try to keep things brief—sips of inspiration small enough to be enjoyed, even when brain fog rolls in.

When I walk down my road, eyes trained solely on the tree tunnel’s end, I sometimes miss the rays that shine in the middle. They are the little flecks of light that squeeze their way through the tree canopy, darting and quivering with the breeze. Right here, in the dark heart of the long-haul tunnel, these light specks still dance. You’ve probably experienced a few. They might appear as a warm mug snuggled into your hands, soft pajamas against your skin, a conversation with someone who really gets it, or the cool of evening after a hot summer’s day. For me, they are also the click of laptop keys, the clunk and clamor of my children practicing piano, and a cherry tomato plucked fresh from the vine.

They are the little things. When the big things go to shit, turn to the little things.

I’d love to hear from you—both about the big, shitty things and about the little, shiny things. Comment here, or shoot me an email at lisathejensen@gmail.com. I may not be able to reply to every email individually, but I’ll do my best. In either case, you’ll hear from me again next week.