The first week of “sheltering in place” I went straight into doing mode. I spent the whole weekend organizing everyone’s rooms so there was space to do work, games to play, art supplies to rediscover and books to read—independently. The intensity of the nesting instinct brought me back to my non-stop preparation, laundry and product-sourcing during both of my pregnancies.

Once we were organized and our space was rock-solid for homeschooling and remote careers, I moved on to setting up new virtual events, programs and webinars for the working parents I support. I jumped into logistics, marketing and creating new mindset-shifting tools to serve my community. It was fulfilling and meaningful work. I felt like my efforts were making an impact for people. I was able to channel my energy into holding everyone else up in a moment where the world was down.

While I was in my organized bubble of service, the personal stories of sickness and loss continued to close in on me. Neighbors. Friends. Residents of my uncle’s assisted living facility. On a walk to get supplies, I passed by my local hospital and saw one of the mobile morgues I’d read about in the news. The image gutted me and will forever mark the moment my experience of this pandemic shifted.

It is here. I may get it. My people may get very sick. They may die.

For the rest of the day, I wore my emotions outside of my skin. I was raw with sadness for the world. I went to sleep early and when I woke, my husband and older daughter were walking our dog. I was alone with our eight-year-old, Roxanne. I checked the grim news on my phone before leaving my room. I didn’t know how I could face my child armed with all of the feelings coursing through me. But, there was coffee to drink and a kid to feed, so I emerged.

As I was buttering Roxanne’s waffle, I asked Alexa to play a Joni Mitchell song–Chelsea Morning. Rox ate and smiled watching me sing the words I knew. And then she requested her favorite Cat Stevens songs. When she finished breakfast, we sat on the couch, arm in arm, and played every melancholy song we knew. Scarborough Fair, Fire and Rain, The Only Living Boy In New York. We didn’t talk outside of building our sadness playlist, brick by brick. We sat. We listened. We were sad and we let it sink in. Every other song or so, she would kiss my arm and I would return the kiss on her forehead.

She ran to grab a drink of water and when she returned, she looked me in the eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?” I asked

“For making me, so I can hang out with you.”

Beyond the overwhelming love and gratitude that washed over me for this child—I realized, she was thanking me for creating the space. And for sharing it with her. We both were in need of a moment to go there, to be there—to stay in it. Without doing or working or preparing. We needed to feel the sadness, the loss, the grief of where we are right now in order to keep going.