Laughing friends drinking in a bar (posed by models) — ‘I long to stand in platform shoes, half a size too small, being rigorously ignored by a handsome barman.’ Photograph: Thomas Barwick/Getty Images

I am desperate for the end of lockdown – but I won’t return to my old life

This article is more than 3 years old

Before the pandemic, I crammed my schedule to the point of exhaustion. I hope I remember the lessons the past year has taught me

I have to believe in 21 June. Friends keep warning me it is only a proposed date for the end of England’s lockdown and no promises have been made by a government that isn’t famous for keeping its promises anyway. Frankly, though, I would believe it even if Boris Johnson personally spray-painted it on to the side of a bus and drove around, shouting: “Not really!” out of the window.

I have to believe it, because I need the thing with feathers (that is hope, for those who aren’t fans of Emily Dickinson). If I give up on the feathers, I fear I may never fly again. I long to stand in platform shoes, half a size too small, being rigorously ignored by a handsome barman. I would pay to have a glass of wine knocked down my cleavage as Jason Derulo underscores everything so loudly that my friend has to keep repeating the story of her lockdown breakup. I would even go to a music festival.

But as I pine and plan for eye contact, I find myself nervous about returning to the old days. We remember how marvellous it all was, and we know we won’t take it for granted ever again (or for at least six weeks), but in truth it was too fast, too much and too relentless.

I tell myself I have learned lessons in lockdown: the value of quiet, sleep, contemplation, exercise and an undercommitted schedule. I still overwork, but just staying in one spot – rather than racing from meeting to drinks to airport to lunch to meeting – has done major restoration work on my soul and body. I knew my world (like our world) was out of control, bad for the environment and unsustainable in every way. The only thing that was going to stop me was it being made illegal.

I have an opportunity to do it right this time. I want to say I can do three extracurricular things in the week starting 21 June, but I suspect I shall start with three and squeeze in a fourth “because we haven’t seen each other in so long” and then a fifth and maybe a 12th, because “I’ve missed all this so much”.

My greatest fear is that things will never be quite like they were. My second greatest fear is that they will. In March 2020, it wasn’t usual practice to admit on a conference call that you were having a tough mental health week. One year on, it is perfectly ordinary to hear someone saying they are struggling with lockdown or feeling at the end of their home schooling tether. The expectation that we could cope with whatever was thrown at us, and more, used to be standard. It felt like everyone was selling their capability and their cope-ablity.

It turns out there is nothing like a pandemic to give us permission to say: “I can’t do it all – at least, not well, on time or without personal cost.”

This time last year, as the ark door closed on my old life and the rain of Covid came down, I was terrified. I am an extrovert and I get my energy from other people. So, I decided to take a morning dance class, via Zoom, to get me up, dressed and moving. It turned out that it is hard to feel desperately sad while dancing to show tunes.

Tap dancing, especially, has taught me that if you screw up and keep going, you will catch up. It has taught me not to punish myself for getting it wrong, because there is always another chance to do it better. I am also learning that when you get overtired, you get diminishing returns. You need to rest and let your brain figure it out. It is OK to stop and say: “Enough.”

I have to believe that 21 June is our promised rainbow. I need the thing with feathers. My other hope is that when we are allowed to fly, we remember that we are also allowed to find our nest and rest.