Day 270. I’m a 43-year-old man accordioned into my child’s car seat yet elated that my 2-year-old son wore his mask today and agreed to sit by my side eating his bagel and cheese in the car. Better than yesterday when we were caught picnicking in aisle eight of the local CVS, chewed out from 15 feet away by an incredulous and irate woman, somebody’s grandmother I’m sure:

“Really? No mask?? Really??? If I wanted to go to a restaurant, I’d have made that choice. You are terrible!”

We’ll eat you up! I snarled inside my own tired head. “I know, we’ll put them back on in a moment. Sorry.”

Like Wild Things escorted back into our bedrooms, my son and I slinked out of the store together like thieves.

What Granny Cruella didn’t know was that I’d been four hours into my shift as a pandemic parent, happy for a few moments at the oasis of calm in the Christmas wrapping-paper section of the store.

What started out as a parental 5K has turned into a series of marathons, and I’m not up to the task. On most days, I feel like I’ve failed my wife and my child, have missed imagining how much harder this is on them and struggle to hold onto the innocence of our boy while protecting him for dear life.

I thought I was jokingly complaining about my longing for a babysitter in the only Zoom session I love to attend, a weekly meeting of therapist-authors writing books to save the world.

“My next book project may be ‘How to Survive a Global Pandemic When You Don’t Have a Babysitter and Your Sanity Is On the Edge.’ I’ve emailed the Dalai Lama for his version of ‘serenity now’ to include in the book and I’m awaiting his response.”

Funny how when you’re working with therapists, they can easily spot a cry for help.

I was totally surprised when I received a letter the next day. No, not from the Dalai Lama, but from my fellow therapist-writer Jenny.

I read it in dribs and drabs on breaks between running with my son bobsled-style on his new balance bike in the basement. I almost cried right there on our small Ikea hopscotch rug, realizing that all of us pandemic parents are all just characters in that old O. Henry story “The Gift of the Magi.”

We’re all just trying to give of ourselves to the children we love, even if it takes away the very things we need the most to survive ourselves.

And Jenny saw this. She saw the pain, the strength, the courage and the poignancy of it all in a letter that I can’t now put down. I love it so much I want to scream it from the rooftops and share it with every parent I know.

I’m sure you don’t have much time left on your parental shift, so here it is. I hope it brings you comfort and strength in the way it did me.

Dear Michael,

I write this letter to you to say: I understand. I hear your battle cry, I can see your shadow as I look out across the sea. Even though distance separates us, I am with you in my heart, I am standing in our shared experiences. And so, I want to remind you of this: You are a Warrior. There are times that you will need to surrender, and come all the way down to your knees with your forehead touching the floor. There are times when you will need to find balance, standing strong on one leg, with a fierce and steady gaze, your big heart wide open. There will be times when life calls on you to be humble, where you will need to bow forward with your head below your heart, and your hands behind your back. Trust that you can do all of this and more.

So now, Fellow Warrior, I invite you to take a breath: Your kindest, gentlest most compassionate breath. Feel it filling you up, from your toes all the way up into your heartspace. Now, exhale, a big heavy sigh, allowing yourself to completely release all that no longer serves you. Remember: Your breath can be your anchor: grounding and reassuring.

Take another deep and nourishing inhale, and as you exhale, place your left hand over your heart, and tune your attention inward. Maybe the dust can settle just enough so you can feel the beating of your own heart. This is your heart, covered by your hand. These things are here to support you and guide you in your times of need. Now, place your right hand on top of your left, and press down a little, so maybe you can feel the thrum a bit stronger against your hand. Maybe now, you can hear your heartbeat, your beautiful internal rhythm. Your right hand is for your children, your family, your colleagues and your neighbors. One hand for you, the other for everyone else. Allow your chin to bow down to your chest and maybe the edges of your lips can turn upward into a tiny smile.

You are doing an incredible job, Warrior. You are strong, you are wise and you have the resources within you to carry on.

In solidarity of the tribe, in these wild and crazy times.

Jenny

Michael Alcée, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist who works as a mental health educator at Manhattan School of Music and in private practice in Tarrytown, New York. He is co-owner of Psychwriters, an online writing course and community for therapist-authors. Jenny Murphy is a licensed mental health counselor, art therapist and certified yoga teacher in Scituate, Massachusetts.