We need a game over. And cheers from a crowd.
A nation that shuttered itself in unison one Thursday in March 2020 has since reopened in fragments, each person slipping quietly back into the world without a shared ceremony to mark the crossing. The Boston Globe's columnist observes that this absence of collective closure has left Americans carrying an unnamed weight — not quite grief, not quite exhaustion, but something in between that resists easy articulation. As communities like the Massachusetts Down Syndrome Congress rediscover the healing power of gathering, the question emerges whether a society can truly move forward without first pausing, together, to acknowledge what it has moved through.
- Americans resumed travel, work, and family life without any unified moment of release — the reopening arrived not as a finish line but as a slow, uncoordinated drift back into the world.
- A quiet psychological lag has settled over many people: friends who no longer want to leave home, travelers who needed emergencies to board planes, a pervasive tiredness that sleep alone cannot fix.
- Governor Baker's words at the Buddy Walk named what most have avoided saying aloud — that anxiety, disruption, tragic loss, and profound unhappiness touched virtually every community during the pandemic years.
- The Massachusetts Down Syndrome Congress's first in-person Buddy Walk since 2019 offered a glimpse of what collective healing can look like: joyful, embodied, and shared rather than private and unspoken.
- The columnist argues that naming 'all the rotten stuff' is not dwelling in the past but the necessary precondition for genuinely moving forward as a society.
We shut down together on a Thursday in March 2020 — travel halted, stadiums emptied, Broadway went dark — and we all went home. But we never stopped together again.
A friend back from Arizona admitted he was tired, though not from the journey itself. Something harder to name. He spoke of the Grand Canyon and the joy of reuniting with family, but that first admission lingered. It is, the columnist suggests, a feeling most Americans share: the sense of having moved forward without ever acknowledging what we moved through. One friend who can now go out anytime often chooses not to. Another needed a crisis to board a plane. The seasons look the same, but we do not.
Two years of isolation changed something fundamental, and yet the reopening offered no shared ritual to mark the passage. There was no finish line, no collective exhale, no crowd cheering. Each person returned to the world on their own timeline, quietly, without ceremony.
On a Sunday in Wakefield, the Massachusetts Down Syndrome Congress held its Buddy Walk — the first in-person gathering since 2019. It was enormous and joyful. Governor Baker, visibly moved, acknowledged the anxiety, disruption, and unhappiness that had touched everyone, but also marveled at the kindness and decency still present in the crowd. 'The vibe that comes out of this event,' he said, 'was exactly what we all needed.'
That is the model, the columnist argues. Before we can truly move on, we must name what happened — all the rotten stuff — and then gather, as we once shut down, together. A nation that closed in unison deserves to heal in unison too.
We shut down together on a Thursday in March 2020. The world stopped mid-motion. Travel bans. Sports seasons suspended. Theme parks closed. Broadway dark. We all went home and stayed there. But we never stopped together again.
A friend returned from Arizona recently, still operating on Mountain Standard Time, and said he felt tired. Not the ordinary tired of travel. Something else. He shook his head, unable to find the words. His gratitude for being with family again—for hugging them, laughing with them, traveling with them after so long—seemed to eclipse everything. He talked about Phoenix's flat streets, the mountains, the Grand Canyon, the joy of reunion. But that first admission lingered: he was tired, yes, but more than tired. Something he couldn't name.
Isn't that what we've all been doing? Moving forward without stopping to acknowledge what we've moved through. Getting on with our lives. Giving thanks. Hugging. Smiling. Pushing down the misgivings and anxieties. Carrying on. Jet lag is fixable—a few nights of sleep and the internal clock resets. But there's a different kind of lag settling over us, one that no amount of rest can cure. A friend who can go out anytime now often doesn't want to. She's grown used to home. Another person needed an emergency to get on a plane. The world looks the same—orange leaves, Halloween decorations, shorter days, chilly nights. COVID didn't alter the seasons. But it altered us, and we haven't acknowledged it yet.
Two years of isolation changed something fundamental. We lost time. We changed. The world changed. And then everything reopened, but not all at once, not in any unified way. There was no finish line. No moment when we collectively exhaled. No cheers from the crowd. The openings were staggered and sporadic, each person returning to the world on their own timeline, in their own way, without a shared ritual to mark the passage from one era to another.
On a Sunday in Wakefield, the Massachusetts Down Syndrome Congress held its Buddy Walk—the first in-person gathering since 2019. It was huge and joyous. There were hugs and kisses. Governor Baker attended and was moved by what he saw. "It's been a very challenging previous few years," he said, "not just here in Massachusetts but around the country and around the world. Anxiety's been high, disruptions have been everywhere. There have been tragic moments for everybody along with an enormous amount of unhappiness and difficulty." But he also saw something else: a community that remained kind, positive, decent. "The vibe that comes out of this event was exactly what we all needed when we were dealing with all the rotten stuff that was going on."
All the rotten stuff. That's what we have to name before we can move on. Something awful happened. But here we are together again, more grateful than we ever were before. We need more of these moments—not just in Wakefield, but everywhere. We need a game over. We need cheers from a crowd. We need to stop, as a nation, the way we stopped in March 2020, and acknowledge what we've been through and what we've become. Only then can we truly move forward.
Notable Quotes
The vibe that comes out of this event was exactly what we all needed when we were dealing with all the rotten stuff that was going on.— Governor Baker, speaking at the Buddy Walk
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Your friend came back from Arizona and couldn't explain what he was feeling. Why do you think that matters?
Because he was trying to name something real—something that happened to all of us—and the words just weren't there. We've been trained to move past it, to be grateful, to get on. But that unnamed thing is still there.
You compare it to jet lag. But you say it's not jet lag. What's the actual difference?
Jet lag is temporary. Your body adjusts. This is different. We've been fundamentally altered by two years of isolation, and we're all walking around slightly out of sync with the world, pretending we're fine.
The Buddy Walk seemed to offer something the rest of the country hasn't had. What was it?
A moment where people stopped and acknowledged both the difficulty and the resilience at the same time. Not moving past it. Sitting with it. Celebrating despite it.
Governor Baker said the vibe of that event was what people needed during the pandemic. Do you think we still need it now?
More than ever. We never had a collective moment to process what happened. We just reopened everything and expected people to slot back into their lives. We need permission to acknowledge that we're changed.
Changed how? Give me something concrete.
A woman who can go anywhere now chooses to stay home. Someone who wouldn't fly for pleasure unless it was an emergency. We've been rewired by isolation, and we're still learning what that means.