I’m probably beating a dead horse when I say, “I’m an introvert.” But it’s true. I’m really introverted. The older I get, the more at peace I become with my introversion. My social circle is not large. I have a very few close friends and am content. Even in pre-COVID times, my social calendar was never full, and I like it that way. I can only take so much being with other people before I have to retreat into my own space and my own head and recharge. For years I was mostly happy socializing in my various places of work. In my chosen jobs, I was inevitably surrounded by like-minded folks and working in scenarios in which there was sufficient down-time to chat or the ability to talk while we worked. (It occurs to me now that the structure of that was also safe-making for me—fewer social hurdles to navigate.) 

Life as a tour guide was a little deceptive. I talked to people all the time and would come home with all my social energy used up.  And yet, even though I was more than meeting my internal quota for “other-people time,” and even though I had a constant close companion in Dylan and monthly lunches with my best friend, I found myself beginning to feel a little lonely. I envied Dylan his weekly D&D games, although I knew I didn’t have the social reserves to commit to four hours of group game-play every week. It took me a rather long time to realize the problem: I was using up all my social space with people I’d see once and then never again. I was lacking community. 

In an attempt to remedy this situation without completely over-taxing my already strained social muscles, in the fall of 2019 I joined my local Harry Potter and the Sacred Text discussion group. The brainchild of a couple of Potterheads from Harvard Divinity School (one of whom has written an excellent book reflecting on how community and ritual can create secular sacred spaces), Harry Potter and the Sacred Text has become an international podcast and inspired local discussion groups the world over. I had been eagerly listening along with each episode for a couple of years by the time I went to my first live show and living in Cambridge for over two years when I finally got up the courage to walk down to the divinity school and become a part of one of these groups. I was immediately grateful to be slotting myself into a community of such warm, thoughtful, and like-minded folks, but I had no idea how much of a lifeline this group would become. We moved to Zoom along with pretty much everything else at the end of last March and have been there ever since. Even though I only spend roughly ninety minutes each week in the virtual company of these delightful humans, having the safety and structure of a gathering of open-minded and open-hearted individuals willing to share experiences and dive deep into both joyful and uncomfortable topics has made processing this roller coaster of a year much more manageable. I’ve learned reams from their experiences and perceptions and have garnered solace from being able to share joys and struggles and the very best of Harry Potter related humor. I have always turned to Harry Potter in times when I’ve needed comfort, but what an unexpected joy it has been to find that comfort and so much more in this community. 

I have also found unexpected joy and comfort this past year in the community at my small fitness studio. When everything suddenly and completely closed down in March, John, the studio owner, transitioned to Zoom workouts, and what a relief it was to see familiar faces logging on to sweat together each morning. It made things seem a little less upside down. When Cambridge progressed into the appropriate phase of reopening over the summer, John joyfully invited us back into the newly COVIDified studio. What used to be groups of four ladies working out together now became just two, and we were separated by plastic partitions, masks, and the smell of the ever-present disinfectants. But we were there. A little more normalcy regained. The studio has since added the whir of a new air purifier to the soundscape and with it the increase in maximum group size to three (adding more plastic partitions along the way), but despite all the new trappings, it continues to be such a wonderful grounding to have a small group of faces waiting for me three mornings a week. People who will notice if I’m not there, who will provide encouragement through a workout, and who will share the news of the town. Where is the city hosting COVID tests on which days? Which streets are experimenting with the shared-street initiative, and how is it working out? What’s going on in the local schools? Which grocery stores are the quietest at which times of day? As someone who found herself close to panic at the prospect of grocery shopping in the midst of all of this (and who has therefore leaned heavily and gratefully into grocery delivery), merely physically sharing (socially-distanced) space with other familiar humans for a small span of time is comforting in a way I was not expecting. It makes me feel a very small part of the place where I live.

Finally, after listening to Dylan’s stories for more than two years, I bit the proverbial bullet and started playing D&D. He actually succeeded in roping me into his online group in November of 2019. My curiosity about the game had been steadily growing and tipped over into real interest when a podcast introduced me to a little D&D show called Relics and Rarities. Once I made it through the small number of episodes there, Dylan, seeing my enthusiasm, encouraged me to start watching Critical Role, and I was officially hooked. Since Dylan runs an online game for friends scattered across the country, it wasn’t too difficult for him to work me in. As they typically played once or twice a month on a Saturday evening, I didn’t feel overwhelmed by the commitment and was able to ease into the group just in time for the shutdown—at which point, with nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, we started playing every week. That Saturday gathering became another touchpoint in a very scattered year. Another group of people committed to getting together regularly, in this case, to play a game. And who doesn’t need a little make-believe in the middle of global pandemonium?

All in all, this year of enforced isolation has oddly given this introvert the emotional space to reach out for more meaningful connections. Isn’t technology magical? These social gatherings were the types of things I used to fit in around the “more important stuff” like work and sleep—the types of things I would, more often than not, find an excuse to get out of. With no work, nowhere else to be, and no resulting lack of sleep, the social things became the primary focus of my quarantine schedule. It helped me realize how pleasant it is to have a sense of belonging beyond work and one’s closest relationships. Also that I can be a part of a community by showing up and holding space rather than needing to be a central organizing force or needing to always “be on” and entertain—a revelation that may seem obvious to others, but to this ex-stage manager and recovering co-dependent, was an eye-opening relief. As we start to think more about coming out the other side of our isolation, I hope I can hold on to my newfound sense of the importance of community. I hope I can hold on to the connections I’ve made and rediscovered, and I hope I will continue to make these spaces my priority and seek them out and cultivate them wherever life takes us next.