The coronavirus pandemic has drastically upended life in the most unforeseeable of ways. At UCLA, our community is remarkably united by similar feelings of loss, confusion and concern, but also by light, hope and perspective that the pandemic has brought to the forefront. In “Columns From Quarantine,” Daily Bruin staffers and community submissions highlight the personal stories that mark this unprecedented moment. If you have a quarantine story to tell, you can submit it here or email [email protected]

I was about 9 years old when my mom got remarried.

She made me wear a frilly beige cardigan that I hated as I was on the cusp of entering my “emo” phase, and I stood off to the side with my new stepsiblings while my new parents held hands and recited vows.

Since that day, my stepdad has, for all intents and purposes, been the father figure in my life. After growing accustomed to his presence, we did everything together. We’d go to our local coffee shop to discuss stressors in our lives and go on drives to see the Christmas lights in our town. I even signed us up for a father-daughter youth outdoors camp because I knew my stepdad loved to do things like hike and fish. I, however, was mostly uninterested.

But any time we could squeeze in together, we would.

When it was time to come home at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, I told myself that hanging out with my parents will be a welcome break from the consistently hectic college lifestyle. Sure, it’ll be a little humbling to be subjected to my parents’ house rules as an almost 22-year-old college graduate, but you have to do what you have to do during a pandemic.

However, as soon as I dropped my small silver suitcase in my childhood bedroom, I could tell the family dynamic felt off. For years, little quarrels between my parents had become commonplace, but the obvious tension between my parents felt abnormally heightened this time.

The early days in quarantine were filled with awkward silence. We’d all go about our days until we reconvened for dinner, where we’d sit silently around plates of chicken and salad at the dinner table. After that, we’d go sit out on the patio in silence, nothing but the sound of mosquitos buzzing filling the air.

One night, I was brushing my teeth before bed when my mom approached my bathroom door. She remained there, silently, until I glanced at her and jokingly asked if everything was okay.

When we locked gazes, her pooling tears started to overflow and she burst into sobs.

“No, things aren’t okay,” she said.

I’d almost never seen my mom cry in my two decades of life. As a single mom for many years, she was tough and never vulnerable. Thoughts of ill family members ran through my mind as I braced myself for the worst coronavirus-related scenario.

We sat down on my bed and she immediately sagged into my shoulder.

“We’re getting a divorce,” she said in a voice as small and quiet as a child’s.

Tears blurred my vision, but I smiled promisingly, squeezing her hand and telling her over and over again that we’d get through this.

I grappled with how to treat my stepdad after that, who had previously been someone I could tell everything. Long drives together were soon replaced by active avoidance tactics made difficult by the mandates of the quarantine. Every day we listened to the news was another day I felt the oppressive restrictions of not being able to leave my own house in the midst of a brewing storm.

And in the background, my mind was clouded with creeping thoughts like, “Should I even buy a graduation sash?” and, “Will I see my friends again?”

When something like a divorce is spoken into existence, it seems like a natural next step to begin separating. One parent would start spending less time at the house, and one would carefully pack up beloved belongings. But the quarantine stopped us from doing that, and it ultimately stopped us from beginning the healing process.

Some nights I was overwhelmed with frustration because there was no such thing as “just leaving.” I couldn’t stop thinking about a loss of life as I knew it – the abrupt ending of my college career and my ostensibly stable family life.

The quarantine revealed cracks in my family dynamic I never knew existed, and the close proximity made it impossible to patch them up. My family disintegrated during this pandemic, and I didn’t have many places to go – no stress-relieving walks around my town and certainly no returning to my comfortable college life. I had to openly process the emotion-laden information in a space they, too, inhabited.

I tried to keep a level head because my parents needed me in different ways. My mom needed me to squeeze her hand when she was stressed, and my stepdad needed me to keep cracking jokes to maintain a semblance of normalcy. I couldn’t bear to immerse myself into a deep sadness about my last commencement at a school I truly and deeply loved for four years amid the turmoil of my parents’ divorce.

I know I have so much to be thankful for. I feel lucky that everyone I know is relatively safe and healthy in an unforgiving time, and I’m lucky that I received my UCLA degree. I can’t blame myself for not anticipating the coronavirus would have reverberating consequences on my family life or school life.

At this time, nobody’s life is going exactly as planned. But that’s something we should all be okay with for now.

Molly Wright was a communication student from Fort Collins, Colorado, and the 2019-2020 Blogging editor for the Daily Bruin.