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I’m not as tired as I used to be. 


I used to cry on Sunday nights. I used to think this would be the rest of my life: working the dream job I couldn’t stand, counting the days till the weekend, and spending Sunday dreading its end. Then, the pandemic hit.


And now I feel happier than I have in a long time. 


I wish I didn’t. People are dying. People are struggling to pay rent, to feed their families, to find new jobs. And I miss movies, and weddings, and travel, and bars, and crowded Christmas Eve dinners.


But I don’t dread Monday mornings anymore. I don’t feel drained after working from home; there’s no more forced small talk with coworkers, no more commute stealing an hour of my day, no more façade of extroversion. 


Now I spend my days with my pets and my partner. My commute is from my bedroom to my desk. I like being alone, and quiet, and comfortable in the sweatpants hidden under my desk, away from Zoom’s gaze. 


Of course I want the pandemic to end. But I don’t think I’m ready to return to normal.