Life has a funny way of throwing us into the fire, doesn’t it? I’ve personally stared into the abyss of what felt like the end of the world not once, not twice, but three times. And each time, I emerged on the other side, changed, perhaps a little singed, but undeniably… here. These weren’t global catastrophes in the traditional sense, but personal apocalypses that reshaped my world, testing the very foundation of my being. It turns out, the old adage rings true, though maybe not in the way we expect: what doesn’t kill you makes you… well, it certainly makes you something.
My first encounter with this personal apocalypse occurred when I was thirty. Years prior, as a teenager, I had become deeply entrenched in a fundamentalist religious cult, one that prophesied the world’s end around 1975. Of course, the world didn’t end then, but for me, in a way, it did years later. In 1982, I was expelled from the church – “disfellowshipped,” as they called it. The moment I walked away, stepping onto the familiar path to my neighbor’s house, the ground seemed to give way beneath me. It was as if the earth itself was reeling from the shock. Losing that world, the world I had inhabited for fifteen formative years, was a cataclysmic blow. Everything I believed, everything I had done in the name of righteousness and faith, crumbled. Life, undeniably, continued, but it was a starkly different existence from the one I had envisioned, a new reality forged in the fires of disillusionment.
Then came 2009. The diagnosis: inflammatory breast cancer. Another apocalypse, but this time, it wasn’t just my worldview or my place in the universe that was challenged. This time, it was my very life hanging in the balance. Like before, I survived. Luck played a part, undoubtedly. But again, like the first time, my life irrevocably transformed. This time, there was a phrase for what I was facing, a label that attempted to normalize the upheaval: “the new normal.”
Now, I find myself navigating the swirling chaos of my third apocalypse: the COVID-19 pandemic. But this time, it’s not just a personal storm; it’s a collective tempest. “We” are all in this little apocalypse together, and it’s not something we are simply in the middle of – it feels like we are just at the beginning, bracing for the full force.
The very fabric of our existence is being rewoven daily. The certainties we clung to, the truths we held as steadfast pillars of our lives, are dissolving, revealing themselves to be provisional at best, illusions at worst. Everything is in flux, unstable, much like that ground shifting beneath my feet decades ago when my personal universe tilted on its axis.
We will, eventually, collectively stumble our way to a new normal. It’s a phrase I’ve never quite embraced. “New normal” suggests a return to equilibrium, a slight adjustment, but fundamentally, things will be “OK again,” just a bit different, subtly altered from the pre-apocalypse world. Whether that apocalypse was a belief system shattering or a cancer diagnosis. But that’s simply not true. As many cancer survivors intimately know, a “new normal” always necessitates leaving pieces of yourself behind, pieces you will inevitably mourn.
I miss the rigid comfort of fundamentalist certainty, the stark black and white world of rights and wrongs, the cosmic checklists that once reassured me of my standing in divine grace. I yearn for the uncomplicated well-being I felt before cancer, the effortless ability to perform tasks that are now beyond my reach, and the naive assumption that the future would simply be a continuation of the present.
Today, I also find myself missing the mundane freedoms of pre-COVID life. The casual comings and goings, the simple assurance of finding groceries on shelves, the absence of the gnawing fear that my high-risk status could lead to the ultimate nightmare: suffocating in my own failing lungs, or facing the dehumanizing prospect of a tube forced down my throat in a desperate attempt to breathe – or being denied that very attempt due to the cold calculus of age. The safety of family and friends weighs heavily. The looming economic devastation, threatening to haunt us as persistently as the lingering side effects of cancer treatments, is terrifying in its scale.
But through these trials, a single, unwavering truth has crystallized, a truth deeply understood by fellow survivors: “What doesn’t kill you, makes you…” And here’s the crucial, often unspoken, part: it doesn’t magically transform you into something stronger, prettier, healthier, kinder, or more charitable. Instead, it simply amplifies what was already within you. It reveals the core of your being, stripping away the superficial and highlighting the fundamental nature of who you are.
We will indeed find a new normal, once this global mini-apocalypse recedes, at least in its most acute form. The shape of that new normal is not predetermined; it is a collective creation, molded by our choices and actions. We will undoubtedly lose something in this process, and mourning those losses is essential. But there is no turning back. What remains, what we rebuild from the ashes, must be enough; it must become – or evolve into – something good enough to sustain us.
So, take a long, honest look in the mirror. Truly see yourself and everyone around you. Witness the human race in this crucible of change. We are, collectively and individually, in the throes of becoming more of who we already are. And we will have to navigate this transformed reality for the long haul. Let us each strive to make that “more” the best version of ourselves. To echo John Denver’s words, let’s “reach for the heavens and hope for the future, and all that we can be and not what we are.”
Stay safe. Stay well. And above all, help each other navigate this new, uncharted territory.
