As the weeks ran on, we quickly ran out of Clorox wipes and Lysol, and I grew tired of managing online homeschool for our children, working from home, and attending full-time classes, all from our little apartment.

As reality has become so hard to bear, I've found joy in technology. I've never been more appreciative of a chance to FaceTime family or get in a call with friends.

At first, I felt guilty for enjoying the experience, but that pleasant feeling was short-lived. Every bit of news we got brought me lower and lower.

It's impossible to explain or to understand really, but the connection via satellite is bouncing all around us all the time. We can't see it; we can't feel it; it's just there.

As Father's Day came and went during the pandemic, I found myself reflecting on my family's unique (or, more accurately, not so unique) American-ness, which is rooted in immigration.

Even though traveling is not advised, I book a ticket to Phoenix, Arizona, where my sister lives. She has two babies, seven months and two and a half years old. Being with her gives me the energy that I need.

Death … an encounter that she couldn’t control with her effervescent charm and iron will. Death, it didn’t come when beckoned. Not even when cajoled, nagged, guilt-tripped.

I felt so happy, but also a little bit of stress, because I was concerned about my sister's health and her baby during this pandemic.

The family on X2 can't decide what they want. Every moment of their indecision I am more convinced: one of these strangers has infected me, a customer or a cashier or, god-forbid, a cook.

When Ramadan came, I was calling everyone my group to check on them and see how the treatment adaptations were working for them. One day before Ramadan ended, a woman who I had called asked me, "Are you getting paid for doing this?" I said, “No, we're volunteering.”

Eventually, we decided to embrace the best of both worlds: yes, let’s go out and enjoy the hot and humid start to the season, but let’s also be vigilant about wearing our masks, bringing hella hand sanitizer, and keeping respectable distance from strangers on the train.

I am slowing down and sinking in to ecstatic time. There is no other place to dwell, than in my own body. This I know! It is not only a turn inward to the quiet, intuitive soul; but an echoing wail to humanity. In between, the birds sing louder.

PAUSE- As the Earth stands still, ahh ... breathe, rest, technology amuck, people frenzied, afraid and stuck, paralyzed, mesmerized, robotic, no feelings– non-thinkers, they are testing now, waiting, COVID-19 …

Our hearts turn heavy at every piece of news of a passing friend, relative, or stranger, whom hospital authorities decide must be buried with the special protocol.

I’m trying to reach out to her and be her safe space, but being rejected repeatedly is so profound– I feel deeply grief stricken at not being allowed to be her mother, by her not allowing it.

“Shelter in Place.” It’s actually a gentle phrase for such a harsh time. So much loss in the pandemic: loss of health, of loved ones, of jobs, of homes, of connection, of personal freedoms and simple joys …

My family used to always complain that I’m never at home, I never spend time with them. So I thought, “OK, I will spend time with my family now.” But from the day lockdown started, I have been busy over the phone, I have been doing Zoom calls, I’m constantly busy, I’m talking to the kids I work with.

I would like to say this about emotions: there are some sounds in our minds that we can never forget. The sound of an ambulance is among them, for me. It reminds me of 1995. That was the year when we started to feel the end of the war with Azerbaijan, which happened when the Soviet Union fell apart.

We woke up on Thursday morning to the announcement that President Trump was closing the U.S. to all outside travel, and to a world turning upside down.

I was adjusting my camera phone as I listened to my client's birth story during her initial postpartum visit. I was hoping my anger, frustration, and anxiety were not obvious.