It's like everyone is moving on without us
Five years after the United States declared a national emergency over Covid-19, the pandemic has not ended so much as it has divided — cleaving the country into those who found unexpected renewal and those left stranded in suffering the wider world no longer wishes to see. Over 1.2 million Americans have died, yet the masks have come off and the offices have refilled, and the collective memory grows shorter by the season. What remains is a quieter, more private reckoning: with loss, with changed bodies, with relationships reshaped by crisis, and with the unsettling question of what a society owes those it has decided to move past.
- For people like Nash, bed-bound with long Covid in Washington DC, the pandemic never became a chapter that closed — it became the whole book, written in cognitive fog and near-total isolation.
- The tension between those who found freedom in the disruption — a Vermont carpenter who built a second act from fallen trees, a researcher who finally left a job that was consuming her — and those for whom the disruption never resolved is pulling at the seams of any shared national story.
- High-risk individuals like Austin, still wearing N95 masks to every public outing and spending thousands on protective equipment, navigate a world that has collectively decided the calculation of risk is no longer worth making.
- Public health workers like Nicholas, who once felt pride in showing up, now carry a harder-edged cynicism — the weight of watching mass death fail to move enough people, and the determination to turn that grief into political and medical action.
- Institutions that once rallied around collective response have quietly withdrawn their support, leaving burned-out workers, isolated patients, and grieving families to ask whether any of the hard lessons of the pandemic were ever truly absorbed.
Five years after the emergency declaration of March 13, 2020, the United States has largely turned the page. Masks have vanished from most faces, offices have refilled, and Covid has become, for the majority, a closed chapter. But for a significant number of Americans, the story refuses to end.
Nash, 25, once planned to attend medical school and had traveled to dozens of countries and states. Now they are bed-bound in Washington DC with long Covid, leaving home once or twice a year for medical appointments. The cognitive losses are the cruelest part — the inability to follow a conversation, the disappearance of the mental sharpness that once defined them. The loneliness, Nash says, is suffocating, as the world moves on without those still trapped inside the pandemic's long shadow.
Not every story is one of loss. Thomas Locatell, a 67-year-old retired carpenter in Vermont, found unexpected liberation in lockdown, spending his days harvesting fallen trees by hand and leaving handmade furniture throughout a local woodland. The city of Winooski eventually gave him a workshop. What began as solitary wandering became a genuine second act. David, 54, an engineer in DC, found the crisis drawing his family closer — stepping up for his mother, growing nearer to his sister, and learning patience and honesty in ways that ordinary life might never have demanded.
Austin, 31, lives a more constrained version of pandemic life. With underlying health conditions that make Covid genuinely dangerous, he and his wife still wear N95 masks in public, have spent thousands on protective equipment, and have quietly grown apart from family members whose values diverged during the crisis. Remote work has offered one real freedom, but the isolation is compounded by the sense that the world has simply decided to stop caring.
Nicholas, a public health worker in New York, felt the weight of the pandemic from both sides — the professional pride of showing up, and the deepening cynicism of watching mass death fail to move enough people. Sonya, an academic administrator, burned out by the second year as institutional support eroded, eventually left for a remote position that finally offered balance she doubts she would have sought without the pandemic's pressure.
Together, these lives sketch the pandemic's unfinished business: some Americans have built something new from the wreckage, while others remain inside it, waiting for a world that has already moved on to look back.
Five years have passed since the Trump administration declared a nationwide emergency on March 13, 2020, and the country has largely moved forward. Over 1.2 million Americans have died from Covid-19. Masks have disappeared from most faces. Offices have reopened. The pandemic, for most people, has become a chapter that closed.
But for others, the story is far from over. Six Americans who shared their experiences with The Guardian paint a portrait of a nation fractured by the pandemic's aftermath—some lifted by unexpected opportunities, others left behind in a world that has decided to forget.
Nash, 25, was planning to attend medical school when Covid struck in 2022. Despite extreme precautions, the virus found them. Now, five years into the pandemic, Nash is bed-bound with long Covid, watching from their apartment in Washington DC as everyone else moves on. The person who once hiked, backpacked, and rock climbed—who had traveled to 20 countries and 30 states—now leaves the house once or twice a year for medical appointments. The cognitive toll is perhaps the cruelest part. Nash describes the loss of mental sharpness, the inability to follow a conversation, the way a six-hour talk with friends has become impossible. "It's like everyone is moving on without us," Nash says. The loneliness is suffocating. Some days, Nash lies in bed thinking only of suffering and oppression. Other days, a good book and a text from a friend offer a fragile thread of hope, though recovery seems unlikely.
Thomas Locatell's pandemic story took a different turn. The 67-year-old retired carpenter from Winooski, Vermont, began spending his days at Gilbrook, a local woodland near his apartment. While others retreated in fear, Locatell felt freed. He started harvesting dead trees with hand tools and a wagon, turning fallen wood into furniture. Over a year, he left behind tables and benches—including a 16-foot table and a replacement set of steps leading down to a beaver pond. The local news noticed. YouTube featured him. The city of Winooski took notice too, and instead of stopping him, they gave him a workshop where he remains engaged today. What emerged from lockdown was an unexpected second act.
For David, 54, an engineer in Washington DC, the pandemic accelerated family bonds that might have taken years to form otherwise. His father was already in a memory-care facility when the world shut down. His mother, living alone for the first time in her life, called in panic. David stepped in, taking control with confidence he didn't entirely feel, knowing that panic would serve no one. The crisis drew him closer to his sister. His father has since passed away, and David has become the de facto head of his family. The pandemic taught them all patience, grace, and compassion. They learned to be more honest with one another.
Austin, 31, a graphic designer in Austin, Iowa, lives in a different kind of isolation. With a previous traumatic brain injury and heart arrhythmia, Austin remains at high risk from Covid. Five years on, precaution is not a choice but a necessity. Both Austin and his wife wear N95 respirators every time they leave the house. They have spent thousands of dollars on masks, PCR testing equipment, and HEPA filters. Restaurants are off-limits. Family gatherings are impossible. Holidays cannot be enjoyed. Every public interaction is a calculation of risk. Austin has grown apart from family members whose values diverged during the pandemic. The isolation is compounded by the sense that the world has decided Covid is no longer worth discussing. Yet there is one silver lining: remote work has allowed Austin and his wife to reshape their lives in alignment with their values, a freedom that feels genuinely liberating.
Nicholas, 29, works in public health in New York and has spent a decade in applied infectious disease control. When news of undiagnosed pneumonia in a Chinese city crossed his desk, he felt goosebumps. This was Disease X, the pandemic that textbooks had warned about. Living through it was nothing like studying it. Nicholas took calls from frightened friends and family, learned to weigh every word carefully, and felt pride in showing up to help people. He stood in line at the hospital to receive his first vaccine dose, moved by the hope it represented. But the weight of witnessing such suffering has left him more cynical. How could so many die while so many others remained unmoved? The injustice has driven him toward political work and medicine, a determination to take responsibility in a world that seems to have forgotten its lessons.
Sonya, in her 50s, was an associate director of a research institute at a prominent university, expecting to stay until retirement. The first year of the pandemic felt collective. By the second year, institutional support had eroded. After organizing remote internships, teaching every semester, and advising students through chaos, Sonya burned out. She took a sabbatical in 2022. When higher-ups resisted, she began looking elsewhere. Now, 18 months into a remote position with a new employer, she has found better balance. She doubts she would have left without the pandemic's push.
These six stories contain the pandemic's unfinished business. Some have built new lives. Others are trapped in the old one, watching the world move on without them. The question that lingers is whether the country has learned anything at all.
Notable Quotes
I used to be whip-smart and witty, and now I labor to process basic sentences.— Nash, 25, long Covid patient, Washington DC
It feels as though we have ignored the lessons of yesterday at our own peril.— Nicholas, 29, public health worker, New York
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What strikes you most about these stories taken together?
The fracture. Some people found freedom in the pandemic—remote work, time with family, permission to change their lives. Others found a trap they can't escape. And the country has decided to move on as if both experiences don't exist simultaneously.
Nash's story is particularly devastating. How does someone process that kind of loss?
By not processing it, maybe. By lying in bed thinking about the sky. By holding onto the possibility of improvement while knowing recovery is unlikely. The cruelty isn't just the illness—it's the isolation of having an illness nobody wants to acknowledge anymore.
Thomas Locatell's story feels almost redemptive by comparison. Did the pandemic create that opportunity, or did it just reveal something that was already there?
Both. The pandemic gave him time and freed him from the fear that gripped others. But he had to notice the dead trees. He had to pick up the tools. The pandemic opened a door; he walked through it.
Austin spends thousands of dollars on precautions while the world treats Covid as over. Does that feel like a personal failure or a societal one?
Societal. Austin is doing exactly what public health says to do. The failure is that the rest of us decided we were tired of hearing about it.
Nicholas mentions feeling cynical after witnessing so much suffering. Is that a reasonable response?
It's an honest one. He was trained to believe in collective responsibility. He watched that belief get dismantled in real time. The cynicism is grief.
What do these stories suggest about what comes next?
That we're not done with this. Long Covid isn't going away. The people who changed their lives aren't going back. The trust that eroded won't repair itself. The pandemic didn't end; it just stopped being visible.