128 When the World is Quiet, I Find it in Myself to Listen

I lived in the Scarborough area of Toronto, and I remember it being March of 9th Grade, right after a volleyball tournament when it was announced that we would be going into lockdown. I was 15 then and thought that it wouldn’t be too long before schools opened up again, so I spent the first initial 2 weeks off school like a vacation. I played all the games that I wanted, read all the books I put off, and got to fully enjoy doing nothing while listening to all my favorite music. Eventually, the novelty of freedom wore off and I struggled to stay on top of all my schoolwork. Everything felt like it was optional. More than just school though, without the forced proximity of class schedules and after-school clubs, I struggled with feeling the lack of connection to my peers.

When physical school resumed the next school year (even with all the mandates), it felt like everyone who went had found a way to bond together, and I felt the fear of being left behind more and more often. As a way to deal with all these new frustrating feelings and forcing friendships with people I had no way to reach, I poured all my energy back into myself. As a way of feeling better, I used it as an opportunity to find out who I was and wanted to become. I so desperately wanted to be me and unapologetically so without social scrutiny.

I started with small steps, just biking around while playing music, making sure to pack snacks as I would try to find little places just for myself to journal as I was still feeling extremely lost, but there was one moment that really shifted my perspective. I’d been on a walk alone, wandering through my neighborhood when I found myself in a completely unfamiliar area. My phone had just died and to make things worse, it began to rain heavily. I was cold and miserable, and I felt more alone than I had ever felt before but as the sun began to set, the clouds parted in a way where it was just enough sunlight to hit the raindrops. For a split second, I was entranced. The way the light reflected off the water, the way the world looked so golden. It made me forget how sad I was and just how hollow I was feeling at the moment. I remember thinking that if I lived more, I’d see a thousand more sunsets just like this one. From that point on, bike rides and walks no longer felt like an escape from my life. They were something I did for me.

Another unexpected source of comfort was the time I got to spend with my mom. We would go on long car rides together, just pointing at houses and talking about the ones we loved, and the ones we hated, and imagining what it would be like to buy a new house in the future. Being in lockdown with her allowed me to see her differently, not just as “Mom” but as her own person. We would have long talks about her childhood, and she would never say no when I asked if she wanted to go for a drive. Looking back, I think that in the same way I needed those moments with her, she needed them equally as much.

The outside world felt uneasy for me, almost like it was frozen time, but in those moments, alone or with my mom, I found my own version of peace. I finally felt like I knew myself – what I liked, what I disliked, and most importantly, the ability to express myself. It felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I had been so caught up in what everyone else thought of me that I had never actually taken the time to just listen to myself. Through everything, I realized that there was never a lack of love in my life, I was surrounded by it. There was just an absence of connection from my peers.

Beyond these personal struggles with connection, however, my family unfortunately also experienced stigma. COVID-19 didn’t just bring the fear of the virus itself; it also created an environment where blame and discrimination spread just as fast. There was an unspoken understanding in my family that we should avoid being in the general public as much as possible. Every day would come with some new news, and it often felt like just existing in certain spaces made us a target for others’ frustrations and prejudices. One moment stands out to me in particular. My mom and I were on a late-night drive like usual and we needed gas, so we stopped by a station. Everything was fine until we were in line to pay for our gas, drinks, and snacks when a random man suddenly spat at her spitefully, “Go back to your own country.” I remember being completely stunned as I’ve never experienced this type of discrimination firsthand, I’ve only seen it on social media videos and online comment sections where it was easy to conceal your identity. And here stood this man, being so loud, and prideful in his hate. The immediate surge of anger, the instinct to stand up for her, to fight back grew in me but before I could say anything, my mom gently pulled me aside and shook her head. I just stood there next to her, indignant, unable to understand how she could just let it go. My mother is one of the strongest people I know — how could she just accept this?

When I asked her why she didn’t say anything back, she explained that sometimes, it’s better to continue peacefully than to escalate, especially when people are already so full of anger. She said that many people were lost, afraid, and looking for someone to blame. Then she told me something that truly shifted my perspective: she felt lucky that it was her — because she could handle it. If it had been someone more vulnerable, someone who might have carried that moment with them forever, the damage could have been far worse. That kind of quiet strength is something I’ve always admired in her. The experience made me realize that stigma during COVID didn’t just exist in policies or social rules; it was in the way people treated each other, in the way fear turned into hatred, in the way communities fractured under the weight of uncertainty. Through it all, I learned that while isolation was difficult, it also gave me the space to understand myself. And while stigma existed, strength and resilience did too.