2019.

Sometimes I think back to that year and my heart physically hurts.

The perfect fall trip to Chicago with my best friends.

The matching winter coats I picked out for my girls to spend Christmas in Washington. Diletta was in my belly then; now she wears the size 3-4, a hand-me-down from her older sister.

I always know if it’s a photo from 2019 by the length of my hair. It’s never been that long since. I don’t know if it’s post-Covid hair loss, postpartum hair loss, or post-30s hair loss, but my hair will no longer grow past my shoulders, no matter which shampoo I try.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to that time when my hair would still grow and my face had fewer wrinkles… the time before I knew too much.

But I also know that if I could go back, I wouldn’t change a thing.

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I remember the images during that Christmas trip… video footage flickered across the screen of my parents’ TV. People dropping dead on the streets of China. A virus. Hazmat suits. Propaganda in its sheerest form. This is why we don’t own a TV at home.

Now when people reflect on 2020, they always fumble through the excuses: “We didn’t know what was going on at first" or “Everyone was so afraid.”

I feel a prick of anger when they talk about the fear because I wasn’t afraid. Not for a single day. I don’t appreciate their generalizations that a) don’t apply to me and b) don’t excuse a year of their bad behavior.

I said it was a faulty reaction from the start and my Instagram archive can prove it. One time, I even dug through my stories from the spring of 2020 to assure myself that I did speak out against the madness right away. Every receipt is there...

I said that pharma is corrupt. I said that even a week of shutdowns would cripple the economy. I said that this whole ordeal was harmful to kids.

I signed the Newsom recall the first chance I got. I offered to teach in person when everyone stayed home. I kept my kids in school. I went to church when I could find one that was open. I spoke out about what was true and good even if it ostracized me from people I love.

We went outside to parks and beaches. We convinced grandparents to hop on a plane to visit their newborn granddaughter. I showed up at a friend’s door with flowers in her greatest time of need. I visited my best friends. We took so many trips and had the best summer. We lived the kind of life dreams are made of even though the world around us was a nightmare.

No, I wouldn’t change a thing.

But here is what I would change — everything that everyone else did… the huddling indoors, the living in fear, sanitizing cardboard boxes, plundering the grocery stores, ruining the economy, masking the kids… all of it.

The Christians who are called to be fearless skipped church for a year. The conservatives who claim to love liberty held up their wrists to be shackled by the state. People shunned and ignored their friends for the pretense of safety.

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The virus is over now. Or maybe it’s here to stay. It doesn’t matter.

Because I'm not well.

When I look back on 2019, my heart hurts. Call it Long COVID.

2019 is the last year I lived blissfully without knowing the truth about people, and it’s the truth that causes pain.

It’s the haunting realization that I wouldn’t change a thing about my own behavior during the pandemic...

but they wouldn’t change anything either.

They would do it all over again.

And nothing is more deadly than that.

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A new endeavor: For those of you interested in my book The College Guide, I started a new Instagram account geared toward helping Christian families with their college search. I hope to highlight various schools and programs and keep up with current events in higher ed. Maybe someday I'll even start a podcast...