As I reflect on the last 18 months, I look back and acknowledge that some days are undeniably harder than others. COVID and I have been on a journey together. My experience with long COVID has reshaped my understanding of humility, resilience, and patience. Recovery has been slow, sometimes frustratingly so, and often filled with reminders of just how easily life can shift. This journey has taught me to appreciate each small victory along the way, even when progress feels distant.
Some days, it feels as if I’ve lived a decade within a single year. COVID, much like life itself, leaves a mark, and in this time, I’ve gathered both new experiences and deeper scars. The world around me continues at its relentless pace, but I am learning to move at mine, accepting that healing does not follow a straight line. I’ve come to understand that each year shapes us in ways we could never anticipate—some lessons are hard-earned through unimaginable pain, while others reveal themselves in moments of joy.
People keep their distance—some deliberately, others simply lost in their own busyness. When I share my experience, there’s often a noticeable step back, as if long COVID is an enigma too complex to confront or understand. And then come the suggestions, well-meaning but sometimes missing the mark: “Why don’t you go to Rarotonga for some sun?” or “Have you tried pure tomato juice?” or “What about mindfulness?” These comments, while intended to help, often remind me of how isolating this journey can be—and how little we truly understand each other’s struggles.
As the year’s end approaches, particularly around Christmas, there’s a bittersweet feeling. While the festive season brings warmth, it also sharpens our sense of what—and who—is missing. Many of us find ourselves navigating the cheerful facade—the lights, gatherings, and presents—with a quiet undertone of sadness, feeling the weight of those we have lost and reflecting on another year without them. For me its that and also the things I can no longer do as I havd become Andrew 2.0.
Perhaps it’s because Christmas is often about family, about coming together, and when someone’s missing, that absence feels magnified. We push through the holiday cheer, honouring those memories while trying to hold ourselves steady as the new year looms. And so, the cycle continues—life moves on, and before we know it, we’re standing at the threshold of another year, carrying both our joys and sorrows with us.
Recently, as I recover, I’ve found myself reflecting on ageing, particularly when I look in the mirror. I catch glimpses of my father in my own reflection—the same expressions, the same mannerisms, the way I shake hands. It’s uncanny how, as we grow older, we begin to see traces of those who shaped us. Every time I speak, I think about whether he’d approve, whether he’d be proud of the choices I’ve made. I wonder what he would have thought of my COVID journey—how he would have reacted to see his oldest son so sick.
It’s not about seeking validation; rather, his influence is so ingrained in me that I carry it subconsciously. I think I know what he’d say, and often, it’s a comfort. He’d remind me to keep going, to find strength on the hard days, and to be grateful for the lessons in all of it.
Life is an ongoing mixture of loss and resilience. Some days are better than others, and some years feel longer than they should. But in the end, we keep moving forward, carrying the lessons and love of those we’ve lost, while finding meaning in what remains. Life, in all its layers, is both heavy and beautiful.