artificial insemination syringe
I found myself cruising at 55 mph in the fast lane of the Bay Bridge when it struck me—I hadn’t driven at night in over a year. Cars zipped past me like swarming insects. Had driving at night always felt this disorienting? Should it even be legal? And wasn’t the risk of dying in a car accident a thousand times greater than from COVID?
I was on my way to a friend’s outdoor birthday dinner, marking my first venture back into the social scene—and the first time I’d been away from my four-month-old daughter and three-year-old twins since the pandemic began. The group was mostly vaccinated, COVID numbers were declining in the Bay Area, and my baby was finally sleeping through the night. My rational side insisted it was time to break free. So, on the evening of the gathering, I left my husband at home with our sleeping kids and ventured into the world.
However, the moment I backed out of the driveway, unease set in. As I drove down our street and felt my breasts suddenly fill with milk, the unease morphed into full-blown anxiety. By the time I reached the bridge, I was on the brink of a panic attack. What if this massive structure suddenly collapsed into the bay? How could I justify being this far from my little ones in the dark night, separated by a body of water that was impossible to swim across? It felt wrong, unnatural. My body reacted instinctively as my mind scolded me for being so dramatic.
I attempted to drown my panic with my pre-kids “Going Out” playlist—lots of Robyn mixed with a dash of Nicki Minaj—and somehow made it to the restaurant. The outdoor dining scene looked surreal, like a bizarre dream. Twinkling lights hung above heat lamps scattered among picnic tables laden with appetizers, surrounded by laughter from guys in crisp sneakers sipping IPAs and women enjoying white wine with stylish masks under their chins. The place was bustling. I found my friends, who were deep in a debate about Meghan Markle’s authenticity. It felt like I was the only one who had missed a beat.
“Emily!” the birthday girl exclaimed, “You made it!”
“I did! The journey was harrowing!” I replied. Silence followed. Great, I had also lost my ability to read conversational cues.
“Well, time for champagne!” she said, pouring me a glass. “Cheers to no kids! Or husbands!”
“Just a little, I have to drive home!” I replied, desperately wanting to check the baby monitor on my phone.
“Come on, don’t think about home!” she urged.
Escaping home had been my fantasy for the first half of the pandemic. I had spent months dreaming of breaking free from the suffocating routine of caring for infants and toddlers. More than once, I envisioned fleeing to Baja, where my only responsibility would be to cultivate a discerning palate for tequila. So why was I suddenly so reluctant to enjoy two free hours? All I knew was that the combination of pandemic, pregnancy, and postpartum anxiety had created a thick cocoon around me for the last 18 months, and the scenarios I had imagined from within that shell were just fantasies. The reality was, I wasn’t ready for this.
I texted my husband under the table. “Everything okay back there?”
“The baby is crying—but it’s okay, he’ll settle. Don’t text, have fun!!” he replied.
“Emily! Put your phone down!” my friend said.
“Sorry! What’s everyone ordering?” I asked, feeling overwhelmed by the choices. I wanted to cry.
Was this postpartum depression? It felt reminiscent of what I experienced after having my twins. For months following their difficult delivery, I had stayed close to home, tethered to the simplicity of mere survival. Being outside in the fast-paced world felt perilous—a realm where I’d lose touch with my babies’ rhythms, which were all that mattered. Chaotic inputs—from news to social media to emails—literally made me feel nauseous. Having always been a go-getter, rushing from meetings to happy hours to events, it was strange to find myself reborn as a sensitive creature focused only on food, shelter, and sleep.
After the initial lockdown, I adopted a similar mindset to maintain my sanity. My best days were those when I relinquished dreams of escape and instead imagined myself as a pioneer woman on the prairie. Success was measured by whether everyone ate and no one succumbed to snake bites. Everything felt okay as long as we took care of the basics and adhered to our daily rhythms. Over time, this mindset became a natural way of being, much like adjusting to life with a newborn.
The waiter arrived. “Ready to order?”
Incredibly, everyone was. They quickly rattled off food options I had forgotten existed—Dungeness crab, pork belly, kumquats. I scanned the salads. Pioneers didn’t eat microgreens. In a panic, I ordered the soup of the day, a familiar lifeline back to the canned goods I had stashed in my pantry.
“So, guys, we can no longer use the smiley face emoji,” one friend announced after the waiter left.
“And no skinny jeans!” another chimed in. “Or side parts!”
Laughter erupted. What? How had such pervasive fashion trends vanished so suddenly? Then the conversation shifted to A-Rod and J-Lo, Southern Charm, Zoom mishaps, gender inequality in Silicon Valley, Peloton outputs, and the best toys to entertain kids when you just need a minute to breathe. Slowly, I began to enjoy the dialogue. My friends’ quick-witted banter flicked a switch in my brain that had been dimmed for what felt like years. I felt it light up and found myself laughing at their jokes. It was refreshing to be among adults doing something other than scraping mac and cheese off the floor.
But while waiting in the not-quite-six-foot-distanced restroom line, I checked the baby monitor. He was crying again. My breasts began leaking into my bra pads. The primal anxiety surged back. I needed to go home. The baby needed his mom more than I needed to dissect Kim and Kanye’s divorce.
“No!” my friends protested when I announced I was leaving. “It’s your one night out! At least stay until 9!”
“No, I gotta go,” I insisted, and then I practically fled the scene.
As I drove back over the bridge (faster this time), I felt torn. On one side was the return to “normalcy,” filled with connections, thrills, and the overwhelming nature of the outside world. On the other was the cocoon, with its beautiful simplicities, satisfactions, and sometimes soul-numbing boredom. Like everyone, I was racing back toward regular life, a massive relief for obvious reasons. But how quickly could I expect to bounce back from the fog of pregnancy and childbirth during a global pandemic?
I’m discovering that the answer is: not very quickly. Like everyone, I need to be gentle with myself. I don’t truly want to be a pioneer woman—eventually, I might just take the wagon and escape to Baja. But after going through postpartum twice and navigating the pandemic, I also find the extroverted, high-energy world I once thrived in… well, a bit overwhelming. Survival periods change us. We don’t emerge with the same goals or priorities. We shed what no longer serves us or what isn’t sustainable.
When I returned home, everyone was peacefully sleeping, including the baby and my husband. I walked around my quiet house, which now felt oddly foreign—a separate entity rather than something I was fused with. I poured myself a glass of wine and settled alone in the dimly lit living room.
“Missing you guys!” I texted the group back at the restaurant. And genuinely, I was.