Yesterday's Shells

I’ve thought many times that living with long Covid is just a long exercise in letting go. We let go of parts of ourselves and parts of our lives. We relinquish our attachment to fitness and productivity (or try to). We let go of goals and dreams—or at least of any specific timeline for their realization.

Yesterday, collecting shells on an endless stretch of sandy beach, I realized that long Covid hasn’t just been a journey of letting go for me. I’ve also picked up quite a few things, and some of them aren’t things that I want to carry forever. I’ve written before about the treasures that many of us are picking up—gifts like increased mindfulness and gratitude, deeper compassion and empathy, or a clearer sense of our authentic boundaries and desires. But I’ve picked up other stuff, too—heavier stuff. Because let’s face it: for me, as for many of you, this experience has been traumatic.

Strolling down the beach, clutching a small collection of shells in the palm of my hand, I realized that my letting go isn’t done. It’s time for round two: letting go of the things that, though essential during my worst months of illness, aren’t helping me anymore. And so, I said these words aloud to the ocean, casting in a shell each time . . .

I release the anger I feel toward people who don’t take Covid seriously or who disbelieve or devalue my experience.

I release the belief that for people to see me, they have to see everything about my life experience.

I release the impulse to make long Covid into the central narrative of who I am now.

I release the need to understand everything right now, to grow in all the ways right now, to have it all figured out right now.

I release the idea that to be ‘enough’, I have to respond to illness in some exceptional way.

I release the idea that I have to recover fully from this illness before living forward into my life.

Some shells were easier to throw than others. I had to repeat my intention to release anger about a dozen times before I could finally give it to the ocean. And of course, the work of letting go is never entirely done. The waves will return my shells to the shore, and life will deliver new challenges that closely resemble the old ones. My hope is this: to respond to these challenges, old and new, with open palms. With hands that—however salty, sandy, or sunburned—are open to experience and exploration, rather than clenched tightly around yesterday’s seashells.

What have you picked on your journey that you feel ready to release?