Lifestyle
How Covid Changed the Lives of These 29 Americans
Five years ago, Covid took hold and the world transformed almost overnight. As routines and rituals evaporated, often replaced by grief, fear and isolation, many of us wondered: When will things go back to normal? Could they ever?
Today, for many, the coronavirus pandemic seems far away and foggy, while for others it’s as visceral as yesterday. We asked Americans what changes forged in that upheaval have lasted, and hundreds of you detailed the ways your lives assumed a different shape — for better and for worse.
Here are some stories of those enduring changes. Interviews have been edited and condensed for clarity.
Donna Sintic,
72, Santa Monica, Calif.
It totally changed my perspective on holidays which I had controlled for too many years. Suddenly it was okay to eat pizza on the patio — spaced six feet apart — on Thanksgiving. My new resolution was to relinquish control and just let holidays be about gathering family and counting blessings.
Asher Steinberg,
33, New York City
Life is mostly back to normal for me, but my partner and I still test if we have respiratory symptoms, and generally ask our family to as well. I still feel some uncertainty about what the right decisions are — Should I put on a mask on this crowded subway car? Is that person just coughing because of allergies or should I move a couple seats over?
Antoine Carter,
39, Milwaukee He lost his stepdad and an aunt to Covid in 2020.
It restructured our family dynamic, and I needed to step up and fill new roles. Then George Floyd happened, and it gave me courage to stand up for myself, and ask for what I deserved at my job. I went back to school in 2021 and finished my bachelor’s degree online. It forced me to think, and figure out what was next, and who the next me was.
Carolina Acosta-Alzuru,
66, Athens, Ga.
Before the pandemic I had only one houseplant. Today I have more than 30. I still work a lot. I still wake up at 5 a.m. But now I meditate and take care of my plants before I do anything else.
Sarah Kelly,
35, Winston-Salem, N.C. She was finishing graduate school at the time.
My fellowship ended with no direction forward, I lost my temporary housing and didn’t qualify for unemployment as a student. With little savings, I moved back to my hometown for family and community support. I live a much smaller life now, in a town with no opportunities in my field. The upside to it all? I have a beautiful 5-month-old baby girl, who has brought me more joy than I knew was possible.
Miguel Guzman,
56, San Antonio He nearly died after getting Covid in late 2020.
The most important thing is being grateful to be alive, just being able to do the things that we love to do, to play mariachi music. Being in that dire situation, that’s the only thing that I wanted. I was thinking about my family — how they were going to manage if I didn’t live. But I’m still here.
Michelle Jaggi,
43, Erie, Pa.
Masks became so divisive, and I didn’t expect that. A lot of the concrete connections with people are eroded when you’re not participating in the typical activities, when going out to lunch is replaced by texts and calls. It leads to hurt feelings on both sides. I have friends who have said, “Things don’t have to be this way,” but my family feels, for our safety, that it does need to be this way. Those friendships have changed.
Lynn Truong,
36, Las Vegas
My favorite thing I learned was how to love and appreciate my face with no makeup on. Pre-pandemic, I would put on makeup just to check the mail.
Kesha Coward,
47, Richmond, Va. She has multiple sclerosis, and lost her job in April 2022.
I had never been unemployed and I had to lean on my savings. I have M.S., and I didn’t have health insurance for about a year, so I didn’t have my medication. I was able to find a new job, with insurance, but I could not work remotely. I did get Covid, and it impacted my health — I have had a heart monitor installed. I was really going through it, and I had to push myself. I told myself, this can’t be the end of everything.
James P. Burns,
72, New York City
My wife and I had always wanted a dog, but had hesitated because of time constraints. But with the uncertain future, a dog made perfect sense. Kiki will be 5 in April.
Constance Kreemer,
75, Santa Cruz, Calif. She is a professional dancer and has taught yoga for decades.
I believe my body is my temple. I became a pariah during the pandemic because I wasn’t willing to be vaccinated. I had friends who wouldn’t hug me or get in a car with me. I had people tell me I must be a Republican, when I am very, very liberal. There was so much fear instilled in everyone. The lasting change for me was to know who my people were.
Rosanne Zoccoli,
72, New York City
I do wish that more investment be made into this type of long Covid. It is, incorrectly, not considered dangerous. But I can’t smell gas or smoke.
Paige Woodard,
21, Northampton, Mass.
It was the most drastic weight gain I had ever had in my life. And I think I didn’t notice it for a while, in part because I was living in, like, sweatpants and pajama pants, and I didn’t really have to go anywhere. And that weight has stayed on.
Jacqueline Child,
30, Denver She started a dating app with her sister for disabled and chronically ill people.
I was not outspoken about my disability, and now, interacting with this community every day, I have really normalized it for myself. I think for many non-disabled people, there’s a view that disability and intimacy don’t go together. That is something we want to change.
Sydney Drell Reiner,
67, Hermosa Beach, Calif. She was married for 27 years.
“You look so much happier,” friends tell me now that we’re separated and finalizing the divorce. But what I think they’re really seeing is me — the person I used to be before this marriage. The person who made choices based on what I wanted, rather than what I believed was required of me. Covid stripped away the distractions and revealed a truth I’d been avoiding. And for that, strangely enough, I am endlessly grateful.
Tarit Tanjasiri,
61, Irvine, Calif. His cafe and bakery had 70 employees in 2020.
We were able to leverage our relationship with our vendors and at least keep our employees fed. I know that they were there at the hardest times volunteering to come and clean the bakery for free. We’re able to now really make more investments to offer everyone health insurance, retirement plans.
Michele Rabkin,
61, Oakland, Calif.
Trying to keep our spirits up, me, my husband and a few friends decided we would get together on Zoom to chat, then go watch a movie and come back on Zoom afterwards to talk about it. We’ve watched 175 movies together so far.
Shawn’te C.R. Harvell,
42, Elizabeth, N.J. He is a funeral home manager.
I wasn’t getting much sleep because we were so busy, and that was the first time I questioned my career choice. Everything changed with how we culturally referenced and dealt with our dead, to the point where we were going to the cemetery and it was just the funeral director and the deceased. You had to FaceTime the family. I did not get into this to just be picking up a body to dispose of it. It changed the way we do funerals now.
Charles Huang,
22, Rosemount, Minn. He has not gotten Covid and continues to mask.
The isolation I still feel is painful. When I’m in a crowded elevator or on a fully booked flight, I try to act calm, but my mind frantically fixates on the possibility of contracting Covid, and puzzles over why post-pandemic life never came for me the same way it came for what looks like nearly everyone else.
Cindy Way,
67, State College, Pa.
When my evangelical church closed, I felt a spiritual urge to explore other traditions. I began to question everything I had been told, and went into a spiritual freefall from which I haven’t fully recovered. I saw my lifelong Republican views flip as well. I no longer felt threatened by those outside my bubble and began to attend an affirming church and support the rights of all the disenfranchised. It’s still very painful to acknowledge the pain and damage I may have caused others.
Carolyn Thomas,
60, Strasburg, Va.
My employer insisted that we get Covid shots or file for exemptions that, if approved, would lead to regular testing. I wouldn’t get the shots or tests, and so I had to retire early and give up my high salary for a lower pension than I’d expected. I’d voted for Democrats my entire life, and in 2024 I voted for Trump.
Malik Shelton,
33, Augusta, Ga.
A lot of nurses would tell you, in some ways, we miss Covid — the way people treated you then. The country was going through a hard time, and everyone was being hit, so you didn’t have so many situations with nurses being called names, or patients saying they don’t want anyone with an accent. Those things, now? They happen every day.
Kevin Nincehelser,
37, Topeka, Kan. He and his wife had two more children during the pandemic.
I have been close to them their whole lives because Covid allowed me to work from home and better assist with childcare. My wife and I converted our kids from public school to home-school. We now have all our groceries delivered. I am also a business owner and converted our business from 100 percent in the office to 100 percent work from home.
Dr. Mark Hamed,
45, Sandusky, Mich. He is a local public health official.
It taught me to get out of my silo and listen to people with different opinions, different politics and let them educate me. I met with these little old ladies, as they explained their fears about vaccines and autism. They were so scared for their grandchildren. And after that conversation, they were hugging me, texting me. This community is all about family, so now I tell them, “We should probably get the flu vaccine, because we care about our older folks.” They all mean well, there is just so much misinformation.
Talia Falkenberg,
22, Atlanta Her high school was still remote when she returned for her senior year in the fall of 2020.
There were a lot of firsts I was missing out on. My peers and I were so focused on our own futures, and it made us zoom out and focus on the big picture. I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore, and I don’t feel as angry. I give a little more grace, now, to the administrators who made that decision.
Judith Liskin-Gasparro,
78, Iowa City
An informal Yiddish study group started up over Zoom. Although Yiddish was the native language of all of my (immigrant) grandparents, I had learned no Yiddish as a child. I thought the group might be a nice distraction. To my surprise, I fell in love with Yiddish.
Stephanie Woerfel,
72, Everett, Wash.
My sister and I were avid pool swimmers. We live 10 minutes away from Puget Sound. One day we saw a woman in a bikini coming out of the water onto the beach. The next week my sister and I took the plunge. We swim twice a week in the Sound rain or shine, snow or wind.
Asia Santos,
39, San Diego She volunteered to travel as a nurse to New York City in April 2020.
You were faced with these huge questions every day: What is a good death? What is a bad death? My thing was, no one is allowed to die alone. It was the only way I could get up the next day. You can make trauma work negatively for you, or positively.
Mei Davis,
60, Pensacola, Fla. She has not fully regained her sense of taste and smell after getting Covid in 2021.
Life almost becomes muted. I lived to travel, and the first thing I always did was look up the best restaurant wherever I was. I still do that, because you don’t want to give up on these things, and you hope someday they might come sliding back.
Sunday Puzzle
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This week’s challenge
Today’s puzzle is a tribute to Mimi. Every answer is a familiar two word phrase or name in which each word starts with the letters MI-.
Ex. Assignment for soldiers –> MILITARY MISSION
1. Pageant title for a contestant from Detroit
2. One of the Twin Cities
3. Nickname for the river through New Orleans
4. Super short skirt
5. Neighborhood in Los Angeles that contains Museum Row
6. Just over four times the distance from the earth to the moon
7. Goateed sing-along conductor of old TV
8. American financier who pioneered so-called “junk bonds”
9. Little accident
10. Land-based weapon in America’s nuclear arsenal
11. In “Snow White,” the evil queen’s words before “on the wall”
Last week’s challenge
Last week’s challenge comes from Benita Rice, of Salem, Ore. Name a famous foreign landmark (5,4). Change the eighth letter to a V and rearrange the result to make an adjective that describes this landmark. What landmark is it?
Answer
Notre Dame –> Renovated
Winner
Chee Sing Lee of Bangor, Maine
This week’s challenge
This week’s challenge comes from James Ellison, of Jefferson City, Mo. Think of a popular movie of the past decade. Change the last letter in its title. The result will suggest a lawsuit between two politicians of the late 20th century — one Republican and one Democrat. What’s the movie and who are the people?
If you know the answer to the challenge, submit it below by Thursday, April 23 at 3 p.m. ET. Listeners whose answers are selected win a chance to play the on-air puzzle.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
Phil Pritchard of the Hockey Hall of Fame works the 2019 NHL Awards at the Mandalay Bay Events Center on June 19, 2019 in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Photo by Bruce Bennett/Getty Images)
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