In May 2020, the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement made international headlines once again, following an incident of police brutality against George Floyd, which led to another untimely and unjust Black death at the hands of US law enforcement. For racially marginalised communities, it wasn’t the one-year mark of lockdown, time-hop images of banana bread or puzzles that made us realise how long and truly exhausting this year has been, it was this chilling one-year anniversary.  

To say the past year has been one full of anguish and trauma isn’t an understatement nor is it overzealous. When I think of the past twelve months, I think of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Rayshard Brooks and unfortunately, many more Black victims of police brutality; the Capitol being stormed by White Supremacists with no consequences; the Kisaan movement which protests new laws that threaten the livelihood of the Indian population; the rising Covid-19 death-tolls and disproportionate impact of the wealth gap on these deaths; Sarah Everard; Meghan and Harry’s mental health; Marcus Rashford and UNICEF stepping in to feed children in one of the world’s wealthiest nations; the UK’s race report which drew the heinous conclusion that the country isn’t, at all, racist.

This list, unfortunately, goes on and tied in was my personal turmoil from having nothing but work at an institution where I was unhappy, then having no job at all. As someone who’s identity is so closely linked to my professional life, I felt like I was at a complete loss. Not only was I looking out at a world that I didn’t recognise for months, I suddenly had another 8 hours a day to do so, paired with the renewed stress and anxiety of confronting career challenges in a terrible climate. I felt like there was nothing grounding me anymore – I couldn’t see loved ones; couldn’t hug my friends who were healthcare workers, who were exhausted and unfairly left to fend for themselves and for the first time ever, my mind was working against me. I’d continue watching the news even-though I knew that was a trigger. I’d feel guilty for not being productive or starting a side-hustle or undergoing a rigorous fitness regime, despite waking up feeling drained every single day. I’d feel lonely, but push friends away at a time I needed them more than ever. I’d cry, constantly. I felt like nothing was holding me; it was cold between this particular rock and hard place.  

Though the resilience of Kisaan protestors inspired waves of pride and gratitude that my Punjabi Sikh ancestry is rooted in strength, courage and intolerance for injustice, there was no escaping the guilt that my second-generation privilege was the only thing that kept me from the harsh conditions on the Tikri border. I lay awake at night lost in the thought that writing to my MP or attending a protest or making a donation to KhalsaAid isn’t enough. My Mental Health was at an all-time low. There were days I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the atrocities of the world, the lack of accountability for malfeasance and the fluctuating uncertainty of when we’d be on the other side of the pandemic. 

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Eventually, through small changes, the fog started to lift. This was largely in thanks to consistent self-care, ‘accountability buddies’ and an excellent Counsellor – and learning to take each day as it comes. I’ve also learned better Mental Health is not a linear journey, so not to be disheartened if I have a bad day after three or four good days because progress is always better than perfection. Fresh air helps more than I thought it would. Celebrating the small wins and telling people around me that I appreciate them, because we’re all facing a battle no one else knows anything about. Waiting until I’m halfway through the workout before giving up (the endorphins kick in 53% of the way through; so most of the time I’d just carry on). Kindness goes a long way and learning there’s nothing wrong with a good cry if that’s really what I need.

I realised the pandemic had us isolated in more ways than one, at a time where what we needed most was to be held. Held by loved ones but in the absence of this act we once took for granted, being held emotionally by the narratives that give us hope. Here’s some of the narratives that held me, at a time where no one else could:

I’d be lying if I said it was just this list, though. Mental Health and self care are messy experiences that can’t be distilled into pastel infographics, so if these or anything on the list do not help, it’s not your fault. Mental Health challenges are the result of a chemical imbalance, not a lack of positivity or trying.

Counselling was the best decision I made, even-though asking for help was the scariest thing I ever did. It gave me the courage to be open with loved ones about what I was going through – something that before Counselling, I couldn’t imagine doing. When you do open up, though, you eventually start to feel the tide turn because all of a sudden, someone else is holding your heaviness, too. There’s a distinct comfort in the collective grief that comes from a problem shared being a problem halved.

The past year wasn’t about how much you did or didn’t do, it was about keeping afloat during an unprecedented time, connecting with your heart and knowing you are and always have been enough, no matter how much your mind bullies you into thinking otherwise. While I hope this helps you see that things are going to be ok, ultimately, I hope it makes the journey there a little less solitary.

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