There’s an acute sadness in knowing that the closest I’ve gotten to a flapper-themed party for the 21st century iteration of the Roaring ’20s is a socially isolated rewatch of “Dance Moms.” COVID-19 has managed to put damper on all things interpersonal; in contrast to the 1920s, where an economic boom and the rise of the automobile tied people closer together, the pandemic has brought with it shutdowns on travel and in-person activities, trading out the widespread introduction of cars for the widespread proliferation of Zoom meetings in the confines of our homes. It often feels as if isolation is permeating every aspect of our lives; we’re simultaneously pulled together by technology while never able to forget that our digital video chats do not fully satisfy our wishes for in-person connection or replace the casual social interactions of daily life.

 Attempts at participating in classroom discussions and meeting people on Zoom are hampered by Zoom fatigue, which casts a shadow over most in-class contact. As a freshman, feeling as though I am a part of the UC Berkeley community still seems like a hard-to-attain feat, even as my classes themselves have become an ingrained part of my life.

I often slip on this isolated Zoom existence in my childhood home, and it fits just like a childhood T-shirt: mildly nostalgic but ultimately melancholy and out of place, leaving little room to breathe or grow. The lulling indistinguishability of daily life sometimes feels destined to be defined by its overwhelming lack of connection, and there’s a particular despair in knowing we’re confronting this during a time when we’d excitedly anticipated meeting people and experiencing new things.

However, as much as life on Zoom can leave me feeling discouraged and detached, this year has also given me the impetus to reflect on the importance of the people I can still see in person and realize the opportunities for community that are easy to take for granted. In an odd sense, a time that is, in many ways, isolating has provided me with the room to spend more time with those I care about and form connections where I had never thought to before. 

In my life before the pandemic, it had been easy to associate productivity with being on the move: It was outside the house that I would take on work experiences, try new things and meet new people. My life took place everywhere but the areas immediately in reach. Because of this, even though my family had moved to my neighborhood a few years ago, I had never taken the time to discover and appreciate this home. 

This seemed to work just fine in the moment, except that when the pandemic hit, that busy world shrank to one street block. It struck me that, with a car on hand and faraway places to be, the people who were most important to me and the places close by had unconsciously become second priority to the things I felt I needed to do. As we started isolating at home, I found myself taking more time to strengthen my relationship with my family and close friends. Even though I could no longer cast as wide a net for my experiences and support network, the ones I still had were built on stronger foundations. 

I also became more connected to my surrounding community. Maybe it was a wish for a small taste of the discoveries associated with college that pushed me out my front door in a pair of running shoes, or maybe it was just the realization that without the hills of a campus to facilitate outdoor walking, I’d be as sun-deprived as a vampire with none of the strength to match. Either way, a couple months into our first shutdown, I embarked on an exercise routine around my immediate community, exploring locations and stumbling upon new people all the while. Something as simple as getting out of the house meant the return of a distanced version of incidental social interactions as strangers became familiar faces on my route. 

Along a section of the running path, an ever-expanding stretch of brightly painted rocks lines the side of the trail, the products of a quarantine hobby that has become an unspoken, neighborhoodwide activity. As families decorated rocks to add to the path, we had begun to build something together without ever needing to get too close. When I see it, I’m reminded that we are all a small part of a bigger whole, and I feel as if I am discovering a sense of community right in my backyard.

In my most detached moments, I find myself clinging to those little reminders that while we may be separated, we are not alone, and we are in many ways experiencing the same thing. While this past year has been a series of uphill battles, there’s comfort in knowing that we are facing those battles together and are all hoping for the day we come out on the other side. 

And perhaps in that way, we are more connected than ever: undergoing a shared human experience that is intensely relatable and emotional and all collectively wishing for the same thing to come to pass.