In March 2020, the world pressed pause.
One day we were complaining about our commutes, crowded calendars, and overpriced lattes. The next, we were locked inside, wiping down Amazon boxes like they were ticking bombs and panic-buying toilet paper like it was currency. Life didn’t stop—it just stopped making sense.
We lost the rhythm of being human.
Graduations became glitchy Zoom slideshows. Weddings were canceled. Funerals were livestreamed to empty rooms. Babies were born without grandparents in the waiting room. Everything meaningful to someone was suddenly just… gone.
My daughter’s summer abroad in Taiwan—something she’d worked her ass off to earn—was one of those things. Canceled without ceremony. She was devastated. Like so many, she had done everything right, only to have it vanish without warning and no one to blame.
At the time, we told ourselves we’d never forget. That we’d come out of it more grateful. More present. More united. We finally understood how fragile it all is—our health, our routines, our systems. We swore we’d stop taking the small things for granted.
Like hugging. Sitting next to someone without flinching. Breathing the same air without fear.
But here we are.
We called it the “new normal,” but that was a lie we told ourselves to get through the uncertainty. It wasn’t normal. It was a collective trauma disguised in sourdough bread, Tiger King, and remote work. And when the fog lifted, we didn’t emerge better—we just emerged busy.
Busier. Angrier. More divided than ever.
We fight with strangers online like it’s a sport. We scream at airline attendants. We demonize teachers, nurses, public health workers—people who held the line while the rest of us spiraled. We don’t just disagree anymore—we cancel, dehumanize, and destroy.
We are no longer debating policy. We are declaring war on each other’s existence.
You voted differently? You’re dead to me.
You don’t parent like I do? You’re dangerous.
You wear a mask? You’re a sheep.
You don’t? You’re a murderer.
We’ve stopped seeing people. We only see enemies. Caricatures. Stereotypes. Content to repost and rail against.
We are lonelier than ever. Angrier than ever. Sicker, mentally and physically, than ever.
And despite all our technological “connection,” we’ve never felt more alone.
We forgot that banging pots and pans on balconies wasn’t just noise—it was a lifeline. We forgot that waving to a stranger on a walk during lockdown was enough to lift us for an entire day. That the first time back in a coffee shop felt like going to church.
And yet now, we walk past each other with earbuds in and heads down. We honk instead of help. We film instead of intervene.
We forgot what saved us.
And while we’re at it—yes, our government fumbled. Of course it did. Bureaucracy is flawed. But even in its imperfection, the government worked. It mobilized. It communicated. It kept systems running. It got vaccines in arms in record time. It sent stimulus checks, protected jobs, extended lifelines. It may have creaked and buckled under pressure—but it didn’t collapse. That’s worth remembering before we throw the whole thing out because we didn’t like the flavor of our freedom for a minute.
We survived the pandemic, but we failed the final exam. Not because we forgot the facts—but because we refused to remember the lessons.
Viktor Frankl wrote that the last of human freedoms is to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances. He survived Auschwitz by finding meaning in suffering. And here we are, losing our minds over QR-code menus and someone reclining in their airplane seat.
We don’t need another lockdown to wake us up. We need to stop sleepwalking through our lives and calling it “getting back to normal.”
The pandemic taught us how deeply connected we are—that every action (or inaction) ripples outward. That we are walking transmitters. Not just of viruses, but of energy. Your attitude is contagious. So is your rage. So is your joy. So is your compassion.
So here’s the real question:
What are you carrying?
Because the virus wasn’t the only thing we passed around.
We passed along despair. Distrust. Division. But also resilience. Creativity. Community. We proved that when things fall apart, we can build something better.
But instead of building, we are destroying.
We are numb. And distracted. And now we scroll past suffering like it’s content. We’re arguing over pronouns and patriotism while entire systems collapse under the weight of our apathy.
But it’s not too late.
Disruption doesn’t always come in the form of protest signs or fiery speeches. Sometimes it’s choosing to connect instead of cancel. Choosing to listen instead of shout. Choosing to care—when it would be easier not to.
So let’s disrupt the numbness. Let’s remember that our default settings—division, defensiveness, disconnection—are not fixed.
We don’t have to stay this way.
We can rebuild trust. We can remember what it felt like to cheer for each other again. To look at another human and think, “You matter. You’re mine to care for.”
That’s what the pandemic tried to teach us.
And it’s what we still have time to remember.
And please—for the love of God—wash your damn hands.
Keep on disrupting, my fellow disrupters.
Onward and upward,
KZ
