During that long, uncertain time of COVID, it often felt impossible to believe that the difficult days would ever come to an end. Time became suspended—every hour like a loop, every day a shadow of the one before. I would sit and stare at the television, searching for some sign, some voice, some breaking news that would declare it was over. I watched with hope, desperately counting the days, as if somewhere, someone was keeping a record of when this nightmare would end.
The screen flickered with headlines—statistics, warnings, lockdowns, heated political debates. There was endless discussion and relentless criticism on every channel. Experts argued. Leaders promised. People protested. But beneath the noise, I sat in silence, quietly drowning in despair.
Each day, I felt a little more drained. My income had all but dried up. The savings I once believed could carry us through emergencies were disappearing faster than I imagined. Each expense—no matter how small—became a calculated decision. There was no going out, no possibility of work, and no clear end in sight.
I remember the loneliness, not just of isolation, but of helplessness. There was no comfort in routine, no relief in distraction. The outside world became a distant memory, and the inside world was filled with worry.
Yet, even in the darkest days, I held on to one fragile thing: hope. I told myself that after every storm comes calm. That even the longest night must give way to morning. The light of hope never completely went out—it just flickered faintly, waiting for better news, waiting for a better day.
