I spend a lot of time thinking about what it means to be alone.

I’m a writer in my mid-40s who is neither partnered nor has children, so alone is my modus operandi. It is my way of existing in the world (my preferred way, I should add; I quite enjoy my life), and has been for quite some time.

This has put me at a peculiar advantage during the last three weeks (or three centuries, depending on how you’ve experienced time since March), as many of the increasing restrictions being placed on New York City were already in place in my daily life. I’ve been working from home for nearly a decade; after 15 years in media, I’ve grown accustomed to facing financial instability, and a market that is unreliable; and I live alone, so social distancing is the norm when I’m inside.

In other words, I didn’t have to change much.

In truth, barring the anxiety we’re all bearing for our loved ones, and those on the front lines, perhaps the biggest shift in my pandemic life thus far has been the sometimes-wild experience of having the world suddenly arrive at a place I’ve been living in for so long. All at once, I’m watching people publicly grapple with many of the aspects of life I’ve long considered normal but sometimes have a tough time articulating.

To be single and without children after a certain age is to largely disappear off the cultural map, and I’ve spent the last few years struggling with how best to approach one of the unexpected challenges of my life: the need to create a language around my experiences so that others can understand.