For a while now, I've been trying to articulate exactly why the pandemic felt so comfortable for me and why I felt so wrong-footed and distressed when everyone returned to their normal lives. And then last week, I was talking to a friend and the explanation just slipped out, like my brain had spent the last two years piecing the truth together and finding just the right words and was finally ready to present it, to me and the world, as a fait accompli.

"During the pandemic," I told him, "everyone was preoccupied with people, with spending time with them. Not doing things. Not going places. Not seeing stuff. Just people. I finally felt like I fit in. Like we were paying attention to and caring about the same thing, for once."

And this is mostly true. My outward focus is almost always centered on people, and I'm good at cherishing them and relishing the time I spend with them. But I think it's the other part of that explanation that offers the most insight into why I was so upset when everything went back to normal. Other than people, what I value in the world doesn't have much flash. I live a lot in my mind and in ideas and among stories and dreams, and while I'm very comfortable with that, I'm also very aware that everyone around me is more concerned with where they'll be traveling or what concerts or shows they'll see or what interesting hobby they've taken up.

I like those things too, but I don't pursue them the way other people do, and when you're trying to talk to someone about what you've been up to, saying, "I've been pondering the nature of utilitarian ethics," or "I just read an amazing graphic novel that dissects the impact of Watchmen on the graphic novel genre," or even "I heard this amazing song," doesn't really measure up to "I swam in a hot spring in the Appalachians," or "I saw this avant-garde play about drowning people," or "I just got a tattoo." I feel so boring, so small, all the time. And all my strengths seem useless and pointless when everyone else is out there doing so many interesting things.

During the pandemic, everyone was limited to what entertainment they could wring from their own minds. We were all talking about the music or movies or books or ideas or languages or online classes we were discovering, and all of it was interesting and relevant and fun to share and listen to. Yes, I found my interest in people echoed among family and friends, but the reason that stood out is because it was the only outward focus for any of us. Everything else was inward: ideas, stories, dreams, virtual travel and concerts. We were all living small but fascinating lives, and we all knew and recognized that in each other.

I don't mean to say the pandemic was easy or delightful or a preferred mode of existence. I know it was hard for everyone on a number of levels. But it gave me a taste of what it must be like to be able to share your passions without fear that people will find them, and you, rather pathetic. When everyone's social lives started shifting back to their normal habits and interests, it was as if I looked around at the castle we'd been playing in only to find it was actually just a cave: dark, shabby, and too small to share with anyone.

It's still a little difficult to talk to people about what I've been up to. I feel pressure to be interesting or, at the least, convince them that I'm happy being uninteresting, and I wish they could remember what it was like when they experienced the world the way I do—with wonder and curiosity and enthusiasm for seemingly small and insignificant things—but I'm in a much better place now than I was two years ago. And it helps so much to finally understand why shifting out of the pandemic was so bleak and painful for me. Thank you, brain: it took a little time, but I think this was worth the wait.