“Now that we have a quiet moment,” the volunteer coordinator at the library said to me, pulling me aside in the momentary lull of our book sale.
A normally jovial woman got very serious for a moment. I thought, “Uh oh. She’s gonna tell me to ‘tone it down.’” I’d been laughing and goofing with the patrons of our book sale and the other volunteers—per usual since I’d arrived for my three-hour shift.
What she said next shocked me.
It might have surprised many people in my life when I moved out of Chicago to the Northwest suburbs during the pandemic. And I can’t blame anyone for being surprised. I wasn’t at the time. It all made sense, but looking back I can understand some head scratching. It’s just an example of how the pandemic changed the trajectory of my life. Oddly, all the for the better.
I loved Chicago as soon as I moved there a few years after college. I wanted to shed my small-town and college experience and get lost in the crowd, somehow making me a part of something bigger. Living there made sense from the very beginning, even though so much of it was new to me. The people. The crowds. The L. The variety. The noise. The chaos. I loved all of it. For years.
Until I didn’t.
The pandemic made the world very small for me—like it did for so many of us. As an introvert, however, my daily life didn’t change that much, especially since I’d been working from home for years. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become less of a fan of crowds, and as the uncertainty of the pandemic continued, living in the city gave me a kind of social claustrophobia. Nothing serious. But I felt “friction”—a sort of drag on my soul—in my daily life that I hadn’t ever experienced before. It was draining.
The housing market was pretty hot at the time, and interest rates were incredibly low. Thanks to luck, timing, and a fantastic Realtor I found myself, for the first time in my adult life, living in a home that didn’t share walls with anyone else. Freeing, to say the least. And exactly what I wanted.
As the pandemic thankfully receded, I began to poke my head out the door of my little house, wondering how I could find connection in my new suburban hometown. As I look back over my life, I see the pattern of seeking connection. At home. At work. Wherever I spend a decent amount of time, it’s authentic relationships with people in the same space that help to drive me forward. Many of my long-lasting friendships are with former neighbors and people I’ve worked with.
So, when I saw there was a book sale at the library one autumn, I drove to Uptown and perused the selection. I bought a couple of cookbooks for a couple buck but left with much more. When I checked out and paid, I noticed the playfulness of the volunteers, and I thought about it all the way home and for the rest of the weekend.
After paying my dues and joining the Friends of the Library, I started volunteering at the book sales last year. And I’ve loved it, culminating in the most recent book sale when I was pulled aside by the volunteer coordinator…
“Would you consider joining the board? I know you’d have a lot to offer,” is what the volunteer coordinator (who is also a co-president of the Friends of the Library board) said to me.
“You’d need a grown-up for that, I would imagine, right?” I could my brain saying. Luckily, it didn’t escape from my lips. I was humbled and gratefully accepted.
I’m not sure what else she said because I couldn’t believe it! It was a subtly epic sign that my efforts were paying off. At the risk of sounding absurd, I felt “seen”—for who I am and what I can contribute. It felt great. Triumphant, in fact. Building a life and making connections feels like finding buried treasure I wasn’t sure I was looking for. (Okay, maybe casually looking for it.)
I suppose I will always hold up a measuring stick to my life as it is compared to what it might have been if Ken were still with me alive (he’s most definitely still with me). It’s not a fair comparison, though. I guess it’s more of a contrast. With Ken around, I was the blissful introvert who was roped into things by a blissful extrovert—which I loved. Now, I play both parts, honoring the introvert who values quiet time and reflection, as well as the extrovert who values interaction and connection with others. All the while, embracing the journey I’m on (while sometimes reflecting on the one I’m not).
All these years later, I’m still finding ways to become part of the something bigger.