The world is finally opening back up — so why am I so scared of 'returning to normal'?

When astronauts do spacewalks, they run the risk of experiencing decompression sickness. The depressurization of space can cause nausea, fatigue, numbness, clouded thinking, and in extreme cases death. That's kind of how I feel every time I hear someone say that we're finally returning to normal.

As a stand-up comedian who misses performing and could desperately use a laugh, I should be happy about society slowly tiptoeing toward normalcy again. I should be ready to leave the pain and grief and trauma of the pandemic behind. But I'm not. I feel like I've been stowed away on a spaceship on a two-year long trip to the dark side of the moon, and I have no idea what's become of the world I used to know. What I do know is that I'm not ready to find out.

I call this re-entry anxiety "stuck home syndrome." It's what happens when after more than a year and a half of living so abnormally, I'm not sure I'm fully ready or able to return to normal. The past 18 months have been undeniably awful, but I've also been removed from all the pressures of regular life. I wasn't stressed about having to write new jokes. I wasn't exhausted from working two jobs in addition to trying to maintain a comedy career. I haven't experienced creative burnout in over a year. I haven't had to deal with social anxiety, or networking, or "the grind." Why would I want to go back to the old ways when I've finally come to terms with what I have now?

When you go through trauma, a method of processing that grief is radical acceptance. You accept that things are just going to suck until they don't, and in surrendering to events beyond your control, you are hopefully able to find comfort in what you can control. So I took a break from trying to work during the pandemic, prioritizing my mental health over keeping my career on life support. The problem is that if you surrender to your grief for long enough, you eventually start to surrender all control, and then develop a dependence on the much more damaging concept of passiveness.

I've spent 18 months not in control of my life or career — and now the thought of having to take back the reins and be responsible for myself and my art again is overwhelming.

I have to relearn how to network and talk to people again. I have to find my stage presence again, my timing, my delivery. I have no idea how to make what we've all experienced in the last year funny, even if it's relatable. Not to mention that with so many bars and venues having not survived the pandemic, I don't even know where I would perform if I actually managed to get my shit together enough to do so. For the first time in 27 years, I have stage fright. And I just can't stop myself from feeling like if I can't pick myself up and take charge again, then maybe I was never meant to be in charge in the first place.

What if I've lost that creative spark? What if what I have to say is no longer relevant in a post-COVID world? What if everything I've spent my career trying to do was just a fluke, just a glitch in the system that let me slip by? Who am I if not this person I've spent five years telling people I am?

But I have to remind myself that the most important part of radical acceptance is accepting what you are able to control as much as what you aren't. I may not be ready to dive headfirst back into normal life, but I'm also under no obligation to do so. I haven't lost any creative drive during the pandemic — I'm just finding new ways to manifest it that don't also take a toll on my mental health. I still love writing. I earnestly miss performing. I still have friends who I miss and can't wait to see. There are still venues that will support the performing arts; there are clubs and bars and producers who miss stand-up comedy just as much as I do.

I don't know when I'll feel ready to return to normal ... But I do know that grief is both singular and universal, and even after 18 months of isolation, I don't feel completely alone.- Brendan D'Souza

It's a small comfort to remember that I'm not going through this alone. Every artist in the world is now picking themselves up, dusting themselves off, and putting themselves back together. We've all been on that spaceship together. I think it's going to be a long long time till touchdown brings us 'round again to find. If we can survive drifting through space for 18 months, we can figure out how to deal with the pressure of gravity again. The arts scene in Toronto is a community in a lot of ways, and I have to trust that we'll figure it out together. At least that's what it helps to tell myself.

I don't know when I'll feel ready to return to normal. I don't know if normal is even something I want to strive for after everything I've become aware of in the last year and a half. But I do know that grief is both singular and universal, and even after 18 months of isolation, I don't feel completely alone. The light at the end of the tunnel can sometimes be blinding after walking so long in the dark, but eventually your eyes will adjust again.