Friday 20^th  March, 2020 

I can vividly recall those days from my earliest childhood when my mother would always tell me that patience is a virtue. But in all honesty, I think it is safe to say that it isn’t one of my strongest points, however this scenario was different.

I couldn’t recall the last time my school bus was late. A gentle drizzle transformed into a steady downpour, casting a grey and damp spell over my surroundings – as quintessential as it got on a British Friday morning. I glanced down at the grey pavement, those huge cracks that the council had been promising to fix for months, whilst my raincoat became adorned with droplets, and my pair of well-worn black Converse provided some refuge from the puddles that were slowly forming at my feet. My attention turned to the chewing gum blobs dotted around on the pavement which seem to resemble some abstract painting, like the ones we saw when we went to the Tate Gallery as part of a school trip to London a few years ago. I don’t know why I was so bothered about the bus being late; it’s not as if it was going to whisk me away on an adventure. The reality is that it was taking me to my school, St Bartholomew’s Academy, which sounds much grander than it is really – a seventies concrete building that some joked looked more like a prison than a place of learning. Many would probably find it strange that a girl born with a condition such as mine (which made movement challenging and getting around school difficult) likes P.E as a subject, but I really do. I think it mostly appeals to my bloody mindedness of wanting to prove people wrong when they make comments underestimating my capabilities, given my condition – Cystic Fibrosis. Those comments, the most common of which being, “be careful” and “you can’t do that”, along with certain other remarks, such as whispers about my frequent absences and the high-frequency chest wall oscillation (known as my “vest”) that I carried with me every day. Eventually, the teachers and rest of my class soon got the memo and knew that, when I was determined to do something, I’d do it. My father told me that, when I was about seven years old, that, while Cystic Fibrosis may well have been a medical condition that I have had since birth, both he and my mum were determined that it would not define me. And, after numerous appointments, mostly spent bickering with the doctors who said I would (probably) always need a wheelchair, here we are, many years later, sixteen-year-old me getting on her very late school bus which had just pulled up at her bus stop…  

The time read 13:25 on my phone as I closed the front door and made my way into the kitchen, where I was greeted with a small white envelope laying on the wooden table. My eyes took a quick glance to find that the letter was addressed to me. An envelope with my name on it. What was this, some sort of miracle? The fact that I had even received a letter which had my name on it sparked a feeling of excitement, considering that I never normally get much post at all. However, my excitement came to a halt as I began to read the letter in detail. Three words in bold letters came into focus. Three simple, but ominous and fundamental words: “STAY AT HOME”. What had I done and why was this specifically aimed at me? I had heard some mutters about this new type of virus going around, with more and more people getting sick as well as hospital admissions skyrocketing as the days went on – it didn’t take long for those mutters to make the headlines. My excited thoughts had suddenly evaporated and were replaced with new, bewildering thoughts which began to circle in my brain as I watched my parents read the letter.

Judging by the ever changing, yet alarming news reports that emerged in the following weeks, such as the growing number of positive cases, and deaths, it looked like I wouldn’t be in the classroom any time soon. Little did I know that the phrase “home sweet home”, would have such a vital meaning? 

Saturday, 2^nd May, 2020 

Dear World,  

For clarification, don’t think I’m writing some sort of “historic” journal to record my experiences in. The reason being that it is very unlikely that this is going to end up famous and future historians will find it at some point – sounds odd, I suppose. 

Well, I think it’s fair to say that you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? The Big Bang, two world wars, the ever-changing issue of climate change and now this. Today, I am living another day in this strange, surreal world of lockdown; of which we have been in for just over a month exactly. It feels bizarre to think that’s how long it has been since I was last in a classroom, and here I am: still confined to my room, trapped in a world of isolation and longing for the day when I can finally break free from the ‘temporary’ prison that this pandemic has created for me. I am fifteen, an age where I should be out exploring the world, making memories with my friends as well as dreaming and thinking about my own future. Instead, I am not dreaming, but worrying about the future surrounding this pandemic and what happens next, and I can’t help but feel like I’m stuck in a never-ending nightmare.   

I never thought that I would admit this, but my anxiety seems to be spiralling out of control. Living with Cystic Fibrosis has always been challenging, but this pandemic has taken things to a whole new level. The genuine fear of contracting the virus and the potential complications it could bring for someone like me is suffocating. Almost every afternoon since this began, my eyes have been glued to the TV in my bedroom, where I watch the daily government briefings – constantly hearing the rising cases and the lives taken from this virus sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t help but obsess over every cough or sneeze I hear, wondering that if it’s a sign that the virus has made its way into my own home. 

The isolation is unbearable, and I fear I have developed cabin fever. In the past, I was always cautious around people with even a sniffle or any hint of the cold, but now I’m practically a hermit. The fact that I must limit contact with my own parents is tough and something I have quarrelled with them over on numerous occasions, resulting in the same outcome of me having to follow my orders and stay in my room. Every day so far has felt like a battle. I’ve already had to adhere to a strict regime of medications just to keep my lungs functioning. But even with all that, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice. The sole thought of ending up in the hospital terrifies me. Not only would it expose me to the virus, but it’s a reminder of the fragility of my health. 

For now, I guess that I will have to take it one day at a time, reminding myself that I’ve faced adversity before and come out stronger. Maybe, just maybe, I can weather this storm too. It would be some achievement if I did. 

Tuesday June 23^rd, 2020

Dear World,  

Today marks two things: firstly, another day of being trapped in my room due to this lockdown. Secondly, it marks three months to this date since the lockdown came into force. Three months. That’s how long it has been since I was last in a classroom, yet, unsurprisingly, I remain stuck in my room, trapped in a world of isolation. School was my sanctuary, a place where I could just be myself despite my condition.  

It practically feels like an eternity since I last heard the laughter of my friends in person. Every morning, for the last couple weeks, I’ve woken up to the same four walls, and the first thing I do is peer out of my window, watching life go on minute by minute. The outside world feels like a distant memory – it’s as if I’m living in a dystopian novel where the boundaries between reality and fiction have become hopelessly blurred. Looking out the window has become a ritual for me, alongside my daily medication, it is like watching scenes from a movie I am no longer a part of. I long to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, to taste the freedom that seems so far out of reach, especially now that we’re in June. Moreover, I will soon be closing my laptop for one last time for the summer holidays after enduring online learning. Prior to the world abruptly shutting down, there was always the familiar sights of people walking their dogs, couples holding hands or pushing a pram, as well as children playing in the local play park. That has all changed now – the streets are practically empty. normal society today is realistically all gone.

On the positive side, I’ve found ways to keep my spirits up. Music has become my companion, and I spend hours listening to my favourite songs, letting the countless melodies carry me away from my confinement. Music has this incredible power to transport me to places I can’t physically go. Some days, I flip over the record, reset the needle on my dad’s record player, and there we are, listening and dancing to retro headbanger. You could say that our house has pretty much become a newly opened karaoke bar. Even though we’re in lockdown, it is like I am at my own homemade music festival, having the time of my life and all it takes to get here is a song. I’ve also taken up painting. I’m no Picasso, but it’s a form of therapy for me. And then there are the books. Surprisingly, I’ve devoured more books in these past weeks than I ever thought possible. Though, what I have discovered is that they have such an incredible ability to take me on adventures, introduce me to new characters, and let me explore different worlds—all from the comfort of my room. Books are my passport to countless destinations, even when my physical one is out of reach. It’s in these moments that I find a glimmer of hope, a reminder that even in the midst of a global pandemic, life goes on.

However, I digress. Loneliness has become my constant companion. Zoom calls, weekly quizzes, and text messages can’t replace the laughter and camaraderie of in-person gatherings. I miss spontaneous outings with friends, the joy of sharing a meal, even the comfort of a shoulder to lean on. I yearn for the day when the world reopens, when I can step outside without fear, when I can hug my friends and family without hesitation.

Wednesday 29^th December, 2021

Dear World,

I must apologise for neglecting this diary for over a year, I had completely forgotten about it because of the sheer volume of things that have happened since I last wrote an entry – the world reopening, then closing, reopening again and then closing again – not to forget that numerous vaccines were found. Ultimately, it has been a rollercoaster of emotions.

Almost all radios play “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” when it comes to December, even on Boxing Day. And whilst I, for the most part did enjoy my Christmas, it all came to a shattering halt after the rapid development of a continuous cough and shortness of breath. Soon enough, my face turned to horror as I stared at the double red lines of a positive COVID-19 test. My luck had to run out sooner rather than later, right? Turns out that despite taking my daily medication, I wasn’t immune after all.

As I now lie in a hospital bed, just as I did every day during the first lockdown, I stare out of the rainy window in an attempt to distract myself from the chaos occurring within the hospital: nurses, doctors, and other healthcare staff scrambling to take care of patients whilst wearing and searching for spare PPE supplies. And then there is the heart rate monitor. Beep. Beep. Beep. I don’t know who, but some had claimed that this whole pandemic was a hoax, but it isn’t. This is real. There it goes again. Beep. Beep. Beep. My worst fear has come true, I don’t want to succumb to this virus, not today. Various thoughts dance like shadows on the walls of my mind. I wonder when this will properly end, and what the world will look like on the other side, and whether the lessons learned in lockdown will be carried forward. Will society emerge from this with a renewed sense of compassion and unity, or return to its old ways and not take any lessons from it at all? I’ve come to realise that this lockdown had become a journey of self-discovery. I have learned to appreciate the stillness, to find strength in solitude, and to hold on to hope like a lifeline.

That being said, as my battle continues against COVID, these are uncertain times. I have had some days where I lie in bed and shed a small tear, wiping it away and thinking “I’m okay”, when I know fine well the challenges of the pandemic are facing me. Am I genuinely okay though? It might not be today, tomorrow, or next month but we will triumph one day thanks to our incredible, unbeatable team of key workers across the country – one of them being my older sister. My grandmother used to joke that “not all superheroes wear capes.” I already knew that she was a wise woman, but this pandemic only emphasised that further. My parents had given me the name: Hope Charlotte Mitchell – shortly after 12:10 in the afternoon of 2^nd March 2005. To this day, I continue to ponder: “Why was I named Hope and what was its purpose?” I had thought that my mum and dad would have given me a more ordinary name to be like the other kids, not to be the odd one out. I mean, it was only four letters. If you think about it, especially in times like these, it could mean not just hope but promise for what is to come ahead. I hold on to the hope that this won’t last forever, and that society and science will prevail. Until that day comes, I’ll keep looking out of my window and keep contemplating my thoughts. And, now more than ever, I have to live up to that name and believe that the superheroes on the frontline would give us hope, my sister Alice being one of them. Hopefully everyone will emerge from lockdown kinder, more understanding, and more appreciative of what they have, rather than always worrying about what they don’t. For now, whether it may be my last entry or not, I’ll keep watching, waiting, and hoping for the day when life returns to some semblance of normalcy. It may not seem like it just now, but perhaps this is a real opportunity for the human race to press the reset button.

Yours sincerely,

Hope and Humanity.

Ten years later, 2031

After being untouched for almost a decade, someone stumbled upon an abandoned book, tucked away in a box, originally hidden so that no one else could find it. As they read through the pages, line by line, they were transported back to a time of uncertainty and fear—the COVID-19 pandemic. But amidst the chaos, they found a beacon of light through a teenager named Hope Mitchell, whose words touched them.

As the world emerged from the shadows of the pandemic, with millions vaccinated and society coming back to life, Hope’s legacy lived on. Her letters served as a testament to the power of hope, resilience, and the human spirit. Her spirit remained alive in the hearts of those who had been touched by her story. For in the end, Hope had shown us that even in our darkest moments, there is always a glimmer of light, if only we have the courage to see it.

Katie Lundberg

She/Her
Second Year History and Journalism, Media and Communication student