SARS-CoV-2 claimed my mother’s life this past March 2021. As I never failed to appreciate the risk of the novel coronavirus pandemic looming over the world early in 2020, I had worried, in advance, about Mom. Maria Claudete Sary, a person of humble education and habits, lived in southern Brazil, over 5,000 miles away from me.

I took it upon myself to remind her–and everyone around her–to take precautions to avoid the virus. I did it for months via phone calls, video calls, and direct messages. In my fear, I tried to impress upon them the severity of COVID-19—even sharing what I had learned from doctors’ public testimonies about patients’ plights in ICU’s, many of which ended in decease.

Today my grief and frustration with Mom’s demise linger, like mental whisperings of “did you do enough? The vaccine was just around the corner! How did this happen? It was not her time.”

I had emotional struggles regarding my parents early on. Mom and Dad’s relationship was difficult—occasionally, their quarrels turned physical, and I had to intervene. 

At times, I suggested they should divorce. After my youngest brother was born, in 1991, and Mom’s father perished, in 1994, Mom’s thyroid dysfunction worsened, triggering a bipolar disorder. Ultimately, Mom was admitted to a mental health facility. 

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A painful period to me, so I used patience and kept myself occupied. One day she finally came home, and meds attenuated her symptoms. Mom and Dad’s marital incongruities eventually subsided too. 

Many years later, in 2015, we lost Dad, 64, in a failed hip surgery. I lived in the U.S., and I was busy being a father, going to school, and working—much like now. My guilt was enormous, but again, patience was key. I wrote about Dad, painted his portrait, and talked about him. I embraced my sadness, trying to exhaust it, and I promised myself that I would take care of Mom. I remodeled her home and fixed what could be fixed.

Mom had just turned 65 when the COVID-19 symptoms materialized. She fought through the damage left by it for forty-three days, then entered a refractory state–as the ICU doctor put it. He said, “Prepare the family.” I got this news on my birthday. A day before, I had gotten a notice from CU Boulder that I had not been admitted to the creative writing graduate program. Two days later, the worst happened.

I knew to be patient with myself and the world around me, to let time chip the edges off my grief. I wrote about Mom and painted her portrait. I asked the English department whether they could consider my application for an MA in literature, another program I desired, and that worked. Merit was important to me, so I did not mention my loss.

I keep talking about Mom, and I keep my plans moving, even when bitterness taints my disposition. I know stories like mine abound in these pandemic years, and the moral I can offer is that to honor our departed is to seize life in their name, to be resilient, and to be patient again and again. 

Alessandro Sary is a graduate student and tattoo artist who lives in Boulder.

With over 450,000 cases and 6,000 deaths due to COVID-19 in Colorado, our community has spent the last year grieving the unexpected toll of the pandemic.  Last month’s massacre in Boulder further shook our foundation, damaging our trust and feeling of safety with one another, just as we begin to emerge from isolation.  

Amid these tragedies, Pedro Nel Gil Gallego, my grandfather and a Colombian cycling legend, passed away at the age of 93. In some ways, my grandfather experienced a period similar to the one we’re going through now. His cycling career occurred during La Violencia, a decade-long period of Colombian history where over 300,000 people died due to unpredictable and politically motivated attacks against civilians. 

I believe his story, which was integral to the establishment of Colombian cycling and the country’s eventual healing, could help us embrace our own outdoors as a means of healing and reconnecting with one another.

Our state is blessed with the Rocky Mountains, which, in the modern era, contains trails and roadways that are easily accessible to outdoor enthusiasts and weekend warriors alike. Colombia is similarly endowed with the Andes, the longest continental mountain range in the world – but, in the 1940s, this rugged terrain had eluded most Colombian recreators given its extreme topographical variability and underdeveloped roads. 

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Attacks on civilians from multiple sources, such as Marxist guerillas, private armies, and criminal gangs, kept Colombians in perpetual fear of one another, and the death toll grew by the tens of thousands each year. In short, Colombia was a dangerous place with little room for leisure activities like cycling. 

Yet, in the midst of this long tragedy, Colombians began rallying around sports, especially as a means of unifying Colombians as part of one culture.  In the late 1940s, cycling clubs began staging road races throughout the country. In this environment, Colombia’s answer to the Tour de France – La Vuelta a Colombia – was born.

La Vuelta’s route was the first race connecting Colombia’s various regions together, spanning 1,100 kilometers (approximately 684 miles) over 16 days.  By comparison, our Ride the Rockies – a grueling race by any account – is about 418 miles over six days (but with modern equipment)!

My grandfather qualified for the first La Vuelta and represented the Department of Antioquia (the subdivision that includes the well-known city of Medellín). As a textile worker from a poor family, he raised funds from his coworkers to purchase a bicycle and equipment capable of making the trek. 

Even with this financial support, he did not have the same types of gear or food that other competitors in the race had, but he did not let that hold him back. Instead, he used what resources he had and enlisted his mother as part of his road crew. She followed him throughout La Vuelta’s winding roads on the back of a flatbed pickup truck. 

His supporters in Antioquia admired his pioneering spirit, his scrappiness, and his willingness to undertake such a daunting challenge through unknown territory and in the midst of horrible bloodshed.  

La Vuelta began on January 1, 1951, and it quickly captured the nation’s attention. Thousands of Colombians met La Vuelta’s competitors at the end of each stage, and over 50,000 Colombians welcomed the cyclists at the race’s end in Bogotá, Colombia. My grandfather became an instant hero to the Colombian people, finishing the race in third despite a painful fall during the second stage that broke several bones in his hand and dislocated his shoulder.

He competed again in 1952 and came in third for a second year in a row, becoming one of only a few Colombians to finish La Vuelta on the winners’ podium twice.  

Pedro Nel’s hard work helped transform La Vuelta from a pipe dream to a national celebration.  By helping to conquer Colombia’s treacherous roads, which went through valleys, highlands and the Colombian Andes, my grandfather emerged at the end of the race as an example of perseverance in the face of unknown and seemingly insurmountable challenges. 

His triumph and dedication to cycling helped divert the country’s attention from the uncertainty and violence of that era. He inspired a new generation of racers and helped envision a safer and more united Colombia. And, only a couple of years before he passed away, my grandfather was lucky enough to see the first Colombian and Latin American, Egan Arley Bernal Gómez, win the Tour de France.

When I reflect on my grandfather’s life, I can’t help but draw parallels between the seemingly ever-present threat of La Violencia and what we face 70 years later.  The COVID-19 crisis and Boulder massacre have led many of us to live in a perpetual state of fear, just like Colombians during La Violencia. But like my grandfather, we don’t need to give in to feelings of doom or hopelessness. 

Instead, I hope that readers of this story can be inspired by my grandfather’s example and find comfort in the great outdoors, where we all can find new hobbies, visit inspiring locations and reflect on a future that will hopefully heal the wounds of our present era.

(Special thanks to Louisiana State University Professor Manuel Morales Fontanilla and his research on La Violencia and the founding of La Vuelta a Colombia.)

Andrés Gil is an attorney who lives in Louisville.

As we settled into relative isolation here, my husband lost his job when his company closed its Denver office. Fortunately, he was able to find another position. Meanwhile, we learned how to celebrate birthdays and holidays with far-flung relatives on Zoom, and feel both grateful for our family’s health and now confident in the nation’s response to the pandemic.

My husband and I have scheduled appointments to receive the vaccine and should have both shots by May 1. But our own good fortune is tinged with tragedy as we watch our friends and relatives in Brazil struggle to manage both a health and economic crisis. 

Last year, my nephew was exposed to someone who had COVID. My mom’s first instinct was to visit him; she couldn’t help herself. Thank God my nephew kept his distance and told her to go home. Still, it was scary to hear that she put herself at risk, knowing that her diabetes and other health issues would make her an easy mark for COVID. 

Last fall, we lost two family members when COVID complicated their existing illnesses. They didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to their loved ones. Because of COVID they both died alone in the intensive care unit. Because of COVID the grieving process was challenging. 

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

We recently lost two close family friends to COVID in Brazil. When I hear that someone close to them died, I can’t help but think it could have been one of my parents. My sister-in-law lost her aunt recently. One of her uncle’s is in a respirator waiting for an opening for an ICU bed at the hospital. He is in the 12th position in the queue for an ICU unit. 

My family in Brazil got together for the holiday season, like they usually do. Two relatives tested positive for COVID shortly afterward. Fortunately, one was young and had only mild symptoms and the other turned out to be a false positive. This reminded me that my Brazilian relatives are not very good at maintaining social distancing. It is a tough ask in a culture that is so gregarious. They don’t wear their masks properly.  

At this point, I am grateful that they are healthy and hopeful that they will stay healthy. 

Yesterday morning I opened Facebook to see a woman in my small town sharing her frustration with the people complaining about the city’s response to COVID and the lack of health care workers. Her sister is a nurse. She did her best to explain that health care workers are sleeping one hour here and there. They are doing the best they can. There is nothing that the city’s administration can do at this point. They don’t have enough people or resources. 

A friend of mine in Brazil told me how the variant of the virus is affecting her close friends and their families. When COVID first started, you would hear about one or two family members getting the virus. This new variant is affecting every family member, including children. Even people who are careful. 

This year my dad is turning 80 years old. I was hoping we could get our vaccines and head down to Brazil to celebrate with him. But right now the reality is starting to sink in. The situation in the south of Brazil, where my family lives, is really bad. It is not safe for us to travel. I am working on other ways to celebrate his birthday from here.

My husband and I are settled in this new way of life. We are locked in the house most of the time. We order food from Amazon once a week. We are cooking more often. We order take out about once a week, rotating between Indian food and Asian food. We give generous tips. 

We work during the week. I pull out my coloring book and watch movies on the weekends. I make a conscious effort to not work on the weekend. I remind myself that I need to give my brain a break. When the weather allows, we go out for a hike. 

As an immigrant, I made myself a promise that I would always go back home once a year to see my family. It is hard to be away from them for more than a year. Now, for their safety and my own safety, I am breaking this promise. 

We dream of the day when we will feel safe to travel and see our loved ones again. I think this day is getting closer here in the U.S., but not so close for my loved ones in Brazil.

Lidiane Mocko is a customer relationship management consultant who lives in Lakewood.

COVID-19 certainly didn’t come in the nicest ways but we need to accept that it was God-sent and gave us so many lessons to learn. Maybe it made us more disciplined than we could have ever been. It also gave us time to reflect on a few important things as well. 

For my family, it was also very challenging to cope with. The best part of staying at home was getting time to reconnect with some of the great friends and Dad’s colleagues in Fort Collins. It was, though, sad to know how the pandemic has affected the people in the U.S., and likewise in the rest of the world. But at the same time, I was also pleasantly surprised to know that most of our friends in Colorado have been very successful in their respective careers. 

Most of them are in great places and serving their respective organizations and communities. Few of them have moved abroad for their job assignments. This long time at home during the pandemic took me back to the great memories of staying and studying in the early grades at Fort Collins’ Bennett Elementary school. Collection of all the moments in the form of countless photo albums flashed back to the lovely time spent there. Some of the great memories I have penned here in this writing.     

It was chilly weather and snowing heavily by the time we landed in Denver. This was the year 1987 but seems more like the recent past. Our dad was already there to pursue his doctorate-level studies at Colorado State University. He was there to give us (our mother and we three siblings) a warm reception at the airport. We headed towards Fort Collins, a city of natural beauty, Rocky Mountains and rivers and perhaps one the calmest place to live by any stretch of the imagination. This is how I define this place. 

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

Soon, we found ourselves inducted at Bennett Elementary school. The love and warmth of the teachers never gave us a feeling of being away from home. Now we realize why America is a great country. They have instilled a great learning culture at schools where each and every moment is filled with fun, cheer, games, music, lunching and munching and knowing more about your classmates. The study tours to ignite curiosity among students were the hallmark of the school where we studied.   

I still remember the hot and cold lunch concept at the school, depending on whether you opted to take meals from the school’s canteen or bring your own stuff from home. The healthy eating habits which the school’s administration promoted went a long way in differentiating what a healthy and unhealthy diet is all about. The time and value they dedicated to healthy eating at schools was highly admirable and one must confess that not many nations have adopted this.  

The best part of taking early education in the USA was that the teachers always tried to groom the students without imposing heavy burdens of books and home assignments. Perhaps this is one thing which sets them apart from some of the developing countries where the schools always push hard to cover the syllabus without caring much about focusing on the learning capacities. 

The friends, cultural and religious events, gatherings, travelling, nearby hotels, restaurants, take-away at the Burger King, Pizza Hut, McDonalds — to name but a few — is something still deeply embedded in the memories. Hardly any day would have passed without having fun with the friends and Dad’s peers. 

After each and every one of Dad’s semester breaks, we used to travel miles and explore new areas of the lovely country. In fact, of all the things we did during our five-year stay in Colorado, travelling was something which we would always cherish the most. We traveled to Canada and Mexico by road, something which was full of adventures and great memories. Picnic parties were a regular feature and involved inviting friends from all walks of life. 

Going to Denver virtually every weekend to rent the latest Indian or American movie was something we waited for the whole week.  “CHiPs” and “Airwolf” were the two shows we watched with a pin-drop silence at home. The characters of those shows fascinated us to the extent that we wanted to either join the police or be a pilot at that time.  

One of the finest memories which still stands out is visiting the U.S Air Force Academy at its home in Colorado Springs. The captivating American soldiers marching past was a scene of its own kind. 

Visiting the grocery retail stores like King Soopers, Walmart, King Mart, Safeway and others is something we treasured all the time. The space the stores provided for people to shop and the friends we made over there, the love we got from them and the sentiments they passed to us while we were returning back to Pakistan, is something which can’t be written down so easily. 

By the time our Dad earned his PhD with flying colors and the time was nearing to return to Pakistan, we had already established great contacts — and most of them are still in touch.

I just wanted to thank the great people of this great country who gave us so much to remember.  

Kaleem Ahmed lives in Pakistan. He spent part of his youth in Fort Collins.

Six months ago, I found myself reflecting on my first half-year of pandemic living. A spring and summer of near-total isolation, non-stop chaos, and unfathomable suffering had sapped any semblance of optimism that March 17, 2020 Matthew held onto, leaving in its wake a despondent September 17, 2020 Matthew. 

I was scared another six months of this nightmare might devolve me further into the human equivalent of Squidward. Well, here we are — I’ve made it to March 17, 2021. While I haven’t yet become a resentful and dour clarinetist, and some positive changes have come about — no frogs falling from the sky yet! — too much is still the same. My former optimism is nowhere to be found.

Soon after I passed the six-month mark of working alongside cats instead of coworkers (that’s still happening, though I did finally buy a laptop mouse), I had the interesting experience of moving during a pandemic, from Centennial to Capitol Hill. This brought some much needed variety to my monotonous quarantine life. 

New Trader Joe’s grocers to talk to, new neighborhoods to walk around, new Nextdoor drama to indulge in. A car-free Cheesman Park provided a wonderful new regular running loop. The best part: My remarkable parents drove halfway across the country to help me move, marking the first time I’d seen any family in almost a year. Things were looking up. October 2020 Matthew was well on his way toward a more optimistic mindset.

And then came November. 

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

Remember last November? How could anyone forget. COVID-19 cases exploded and lockdowns were reinstated, all while the tensest election of my — and possibly anyone’s — lifetime was threatening to derail into a full-blown crisis. And mere hours after Joe Biden was finally declared our next president, we lost Alex Trebek, a personal hero who had done more to keep me sane in 2020 than perhaps any other person with his consistent, comforting presence on Jeopardy each evening. He was truly a lifeline for my mental health; his passing felt like the last straw, and I wished that someone would just wake me up when November ended.

Although I was fortunate to spend time with family over the holidays, this winter was overall one of great despair and even greater loneliness — even worse than I had feared six months ago. Days got cold and nights got long. Park meet-ups were no longer an option, and Zoom hang-outs were no longer fun. 

The dual existential threats of climate change and systemic racism kept rearing their ugly heads, and society seemed more divided than ever. Our pandemic queen, Taylor Swift, came through with another surprise quarantine album, but that only brought temporary respite from the general awfulness.

January 2020 Matthew was in an even worse place than his six-month-younger self. When watching an old episode of “Dinosaurs,” that ridiculous ’90’s sitcom, made me tear up, I finally had to confront that most terrifying of d-words — depression — and accept that I needed help.

I used to be one of those people who thought that therapy is a wonderful thing — for everybody else. Definitely not something I needed. “I’m healthy, I’m content, I have a great family and great friends, what could I possibly need to talk about?” the thinking goes. The best thing about March 17, 2021 Matthew is that he realized how wrong that is, and that it’s OK to not be OK. A special shoutout goes to my sister, who helped convince me to finally take the leap and talk to someone — thanks, Megan. I’ve had a few sessions now, and it’s been more helpful than I would have ever imagined to just talk and be heard. If you take anything away from my musings, please make it this: Wherever you are in life, therapy is absolutely for you.

A lot of other good things have happened this past month. I actually walked inside a library the other day, and that experience was almost cathartic. My siblings and parents have now all been vaccinated, and that feels even better. I met up with my running friends for the first time in what felt like forever, and they brought muffins! 

This isn’t to suggest that, one year later, I’ve fully returned to my optimistic March 17, 2020 form — far from it. But I’m also not sure if I want to. As neat as I think he was, he was also a tad naive. The circumstances that brought it about are obviously terrible, but all of this time to myself has helped me to grow as a person. At least one positive to come out of 2020.

I have no idea what September 17, 2021 Matthew will be like. It’s hard to say what the rest of 2021 will bring for any of us, and that’s OK. As much as my planner brain wishes otherwise, uncertainty is just a part of life. I’ve recently found myself returning a lot to a lyric from a song by The Maine: “I’m not looking to be found, just want to be unlost.” 

I lost myself last year and I don’t expect to find the person I was a year ago any time soon, if ever. But these past few months — the therapy, the vaccines, the return of sunny park days — have finally got me feeling a little less lost. That’s enough for now.

Matthew Downey is a transportation planner and occasional writer living in Denver.

At the beginning of this pandemic, everywhere I looked there was something to bring me down. These were bleak times. No toilet paper. Each news story scarier than the last. Everyone stuck in the same place day after day. People judging one another’s decisions, when everyone was just trying to make it to the next day.

Our world seemed incredibly broken in so many ways that it was very easy to succumb to sitting around and living in that dark, depressing head space. There wasn’t a lot to laugh about and it was starting to feel like there wasn’t much to look forward to, either. 

One day bled into the next, two weeks became two months, and before I knew it I had a dark cloud following me as I tried to organize yet another room. I started to feel a hopeless feeling like I have never experienced before, which is scary when you have two children in the house and they are looking to you for guidance. They needed me to remind them that everything was going to be OK. For the first time in my life, I felt consumed by a depression so deep that I didn’t know if I could tell them it would be. 

During this time home in quarantine, I decided to take several different creative writing classes to change things up. I had always used writing as a way to express myself. But given that I felt so out of touch with the outside world, I figured taking a writing class and connecting with some new people might be just what I needed, even if it meant more Zoom calls.

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

If someone would have asked me a year ago if I would ever write a play, I would have laughed out loud. While I love theater, my only personal experience with being in a play was a very small role in our high school musical an embarrassing number of years ago. But here I was, taking a playwriting class, of all things. It was so far from anything I had done before.

It became apparent pretty quickly that I was gravitating toward comedy. Those were the plays I wanted to read and surround myself with. When the time came to write my own, it seemed only fitting that I would create a fictional piece based on a funny, real-life road trip that took place over 20 years ago.

I certainly didn’t want to spend the next eight weeks of my life writing about something that depressed me further. What I needed was to transport myself to a time when life seemed lighter. Still, it wasn’t until a playwright who had listened to actors perform our work commented about how rare it was to see comedy during our real-life national tragedy that I realized what a gift I’d given myself. 

I became energized through this writing class and it gave me hope. I looked forward to meeting with my teacher and fellow students to workshop our pieces. My husband became my editor, which gave us so many new, fun topics to discuss. I started to share what I was doing with my parents and with my friends. I felt like a light had been switched on after so much darkness.

Writing about a single funny anecdote unlocked many others from my memory. One of my twins heard me laughing one day while working on my writing and asked, “Mom, what’s so funny?” And I realized I had so many stories to tell them. My children are at that age when they love hearing tales about my younger self. Suddenly, I had tons of material!

Dealing with depression is never easy, but when you throw this pandemic into the mix it becomes exponentially more difficult. Choosing to write a comedy was the best choice I’ve made in a long time. It made me feel like myself again. Through composing witty dialogue, I was reminded how important it is to laugh — and how darn good it feels to laugh with your whole belly. Sharing my experiences with those I care about reinvigorated me and gave me a sense of connection I’d been missing. 

I can finally sigh with relief. 

We are a long way from returning to our pre-pandemic life, but through this experience I’m confident that there is hope on the horizon. Sometimes you need to look extra hard to find that laughter, but it’s good to remember there was life before COVID and there will be life after. I feel more comfortable now telling my twin boys that in time, yes, things surely will be OK. The sun will come out tomorrow.

Lisa Wilkesheski is a mom and substitute teacher who lives in Highlands Ranch.

In Praise of Home School 

I see my neighbor through the aspen tree.
Usually in suit & heels at a desk downtown 
now she’s home in baggy sweats, intent 
on deconstructing a pile of delivery boxes 
creating a cardboard idol to order.

On a walk, a grey brush rabbit
sits half-in, half-out of a hedge. 
His nose pulsates; mine feels 
red & hot under a makeshift mask.
I give him social distance, as he
waits for what might happen next.  

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

This stretch of isolation conjures
images from childhood, when time
was a pleasure to kill – swaying
in a hammock of faded quilts, absorbed
in the lackadaisical dance of clouds 
casements of mind open wide. 

Some say shelter-at-home is a wasteland
of boredom bathed in cathode rays 
of ruminating on things long hid – 
slackened bonds of coupledom
slender reeds of habit
how family depletes us. 

I say – we are being home schooled.
The world has been too fast
too loud too much for too long.
We are blinking, peering at the
frightened eyes of the front-line
the carnage of the microscopic 
the myth of endless progress.

Praise the lesson: earth is not ours
we are not master of anything. 

Anna Dunlap is a poet, community volunteer, and executive coach living in Denver.

After a seven-mile ride in mud and snow, I bring the horses back to the paddock, toss them hay, and sit on the fence. 

Sitting on the fence is not a metaphor, it is what horse owners do as we watch, contemplate, and maybe – though it seems highly indulgent – cherish our time with Equus caballus. 

As more of us seek equine-related activities during the pandemic, fence sitting is a thing. Horses, it seems, are reestablishing their place in society. They’re also going through a rebranding: out as beasts of burden, in as Beasts of Being. 

Parents have flocked to barns, looking to assuage their children’s anxieties with riding lessons. Friends of mine who manage barns and have horses in training, now have long wait lists. Christy Landwehr, CEO of Certified Horsemanship Association, the largest certifying body in North America, with 3,500 members, told me they’re struggling to keep up with demand. 

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

Meanwhile, some horse owners, facing the choice of feeding their families or their mounts, have had to surrender horses. Rescue organizations are busy, too. 

Contrary to what you might think, riding and horse owning is not a country club affair, reserved solely for the rich and privileged. According to demographic research, only a third of the nation’s five million horse owners are well off. A third are solidly middle class. A third are less well off. 

Many live in the country. 

We have stinky clothes, no vacation days, slim wallets, and weathered crow’s feet on our faces, from smiling and wincing in the weather. More than any outdoor recreationalist, we are out there, in sub-zeros and triple digits, caring for and working with our equine partners. 

Anecdotally, I can say that most of us have horses in the blood, passed down generously by parents and grandparents. In this corner of Colorado, families literally came to the area on horses’ backs. Here, many horses need to be handy, able to work cows, move through gates, hold steady during brandings, and perform myriad tasks in shifting conditions (like storms and road traffic). 

When we see the droves of newcomers to our vocation, some of us are amused. Some of us worry that newbies will treat horses as big purse dogs, accessories to their world. Horses suffer when they are put in small spaces (stalls), given meals (grain), and are adorned with clothing (blankets). As director of the annual Best Horse Practices Summit, I chat with scores of well-meaning owners who run the risk of loving their new equines to death. 

“Let a horse be a horse,” is not just a woke phrase. It’s supported by research and speaks to the horses’ need for freedom, friends, and forage, i.e., being able to live in a large space where they can graze most of the day and be with a herd. 

Notwithstanding these educational challenges, newcomers are welcome. They’ve helped us better appreciate what’s been there all along: a horse’s presence.

You can feel heat radiating from its thousand-pound body and smell its pleasant musk. You can watch its ears (which pivot independently) and eyes (the biggest in the mammalian world) as they consider you. 

Horse time is immersive. That’s one reason it’s so therapeutically effective.

Another reason is that horse work is a two-way deal in which we learn (often the hard way) about respect, trust, consistency, and boundaries. I say it’s more valuable and harder to maintain than the relationships people have with dogs or cats. I say it’s more profound than any gardening or yoga practice. 

It could be that horse-to-human work has perfectly prepared us for times of struggle, like a global pandemic and a chaotic political climate. 

My friend, Amy, a horse trainer in North Carolina, said, “I don’t feel like anything has changed. I have the same amount of isolation, of not going to town, of being alone. With the horses, I’m grounded and focused and things are pleasant. All’s well in the horses’ world. I have had a great year. I kinda feel guilty.”

Nancy, an older friend in Utah, got COVID. She said, “I never missed a feeding.  Yet some mornings I didn’t know if I’d make it down the hill to the barn. As soon as I heard that soft nicker, though, I’d feel better. I think doing those chores kept me going. There is something healing about being near a warm horse body, watching the glow of a setting sun. I could have called on offers of help, but I wanted to do it as long as I could muster the strength.”

To all those just now discovering horses, I say “Welcome!” While we see livestock, you see listeners. No matter the form or outcome, I root for horses to stick around. We need them now, as we have for millennia. 

Maddy Butcher has written for The Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and High Country News. She is the author of “Horse Head: Brain Science and Other Insights.” She lives in Dolores.

This week you’ve heard from virtually the entire staff of The Colorado Sun as we’ve offered a look back, and a look ahead, after one year of the coronavirus.

Along the seemingly interminable road, we also wanted to hear from you, our readers. Inspired by the call to write during this pandemic issued by novelist and teacher Laura Pritchett to her class of college writers, we created Write On, Colorado.

The goal has been to collect enduring snapshots of life during a historic time, with all its difficulties, heartaches, joys and new discoveries. Now, as we reach the one-year milestone, we offer a look back at some of the most memorable contributions.

We begin with a retrospective from Pritchett, whose essay launched the project.

Click here to skim the entire Write On, Colorado project.

We are in this aloneness together: Reflections on one year of Coloradans responding to the call

By Laura Pritchett / March 5, 2021

This time last year, Colorado had its first COVID cases. And soon after, The Colorado Sun responded by starting this Write On feature. Now at about 170 pieces and counting, it has offered a chance for Coloradans to share their bewilderment, epiphanies, stories and heartache of the times. 

Although we were uniformly shocked by the pandemic, there was great diversity among the submissions: Retirees and new graduates. Prose and poetry and even song! Urban nature and wilderness nature appreciation. Joyful stories and difficult ones. 

And yet, big commonalities stood out: Honesty. Frankness. Vulnerability. 

I often tell my students, “We have free speech in this country, but not always frank speech.” Lack of genuineness lends itself to all sorts of societal and personal repressions which have serious consequences. I encourage them: “No Hallmark, please, no glossed-over stuff. Give me the real and the raw.”

That’s what this project has done above all else, I think. Allow a space for that. And as one contributor put it honestly, “having courage to sit with darkness makes you a badass.”  

It sure does. We are badasses. We have risen to the occasion. 

Read the entire piece here.

I’m learning to value every inch of life I occupy thanks to coronavirus. And it actually feels bigger than before.

By Maya Booth / March 31, 2020

I’ve spent the afternoon running around my small yard in central Denver, taking photos of every green living thing I can see. 

I squeal through a half-open window to my roommate, who is also working from home and probably wondering what I’m up to, that I’ve just made a thrilling discovery: a smartphone app that classifies plants right down to the species, at the tap of a digital camera shutter. Many are out there suffering and sacrificing in the fight against the novel coronavirus, but my perspective is one of staying home and refocusing my figurative lens on life in a smaller bubble. The adjustment has made the patch of urban grass I live on begin to feel like an entire wilderness. 

Read the entire piece.

As a recently burnt-out nurse searching for a way forward, I embrace routine in these strange times

By Margaret Gambel / April 1, 2020

Routine. Our house of four maintains a routine, broken predominantly only by the nightly living room updates of a pandemic world. Even then, that itself is a part of the routine.

Two of the housemates are medical students. They remain studying for a Step One exam that is constantly at risk of cancellation. The start of the third year, the year they really get to experience the clinical side of all they have learned, faces uncertainty. Otherwise, their daily schedules are the same as pre-pandemic.

I set no alarm, because I know that just after seven, I will awaken to the sound of fresh coffee being ground. It is my cue that I should also get my morning started, although I go about it in a lazier fashion than either of them. I dress in jeans, a jacket and socks with sandals, knowing that by midday, I will have shed down to shorts and T-shirt. Classic Colorado.

Read the entire piece.

Amid the coronavirus shutdown, I went on a walk for sanity. I got a dose of reality.

By Steve Krizman / April 4, 2020

As Doug and I reached Park Avenue and Broadway, the “Jesus Saves” sign was in view. We were one block away from the Lawrence Street Rescue Mission, where Doug could finally get warm.

“Oh NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!” he wailed. “It’s happening!” His shivering flared into convulsions as he leaned into a wall and I helped him slide to the ground. The seizure he had warned me about was upon him, just short of “Jesus Saves.”

I had known Doug for about 30 minutes. I was on my daily walk for sanity in the Uptown neighborhood when I came upon him at East 22^nd Avenue and Emerson Street. He was dressed in shorts on a sleety 30-degree day and looked wobbly.

Read the entire piece here.

This unusual moment in history gives us time to learn something new or remember something forgotten

By Richard Lawson / April 8, 2020

I was due to read Heidegger’s “Being and Time.” As an Episcopal priest, it is my job to have some sense of what we are up against. And lately I have been thinking a lot about what we face. 

In order to sharpen my thinking, I picked up this thick book of existential philosophy, which was published shortly after World War I. The book is about what life feels like between birth and death. In my view, existentialism pairs well with theology, which sometimes gets distracted by ideals and the afterlife.

Read the entire piece here.

As a teen, I debated if I’d even attend my mom’s funeral. Now, I want nothing more than to be there for her.

By Christi Romero-Roseth / April 11, 2020

I was there for you for the first time, really, when I was 19.

We’d had years of discord, you and me, emotional, physical, pain that dominated and shaped my young life, and yours, too, I imagine. I’m sure you don’t know, but as an angst-filled teen, I’d had years of an inner conversation that had me arguing with myself whether I’d even go to your funeral if you died. 

But then, I didn’t have to wait to find out. And you didn’t have to die to settle it.

Read the entire piece here.

I thought I was taking care of my son during coronavirus. Turns out he was taking care of me.

By Will Bardenwerper / April 13, 2020

Nature heals. Many have discovered this before me, but better late than never. Though I’ve always appreciated the beauty of nature, my admiration had been abstract, limited to infrequent and brief sojourns from various cities. 

My conversion from distant admirer to true believer took place recently, as I looked for healthy things to do with my 2½-year-old son, Bates, amidst Denver’s increasingly restrictive shelter-in-place protocols. 

Aside from 63 hellish days of Army Ranger School, I’ve never gone camping. I’m a decent athlete, regular CrossFitter and skier, but by no means an outdoorsman. Simply putting up a Marmot tent recently had me studying YouTube instructional videos. And so the recent epiphany I experienced hiking South Table Mountain outside Golden, Colorado, came as a surprise. 

Read the entire piece here.

I thought I was launching a new chapter of my life. Now I must trust in the universe.

By Alyssa Mamuszka / May 6, 2020

About two months ago, I arrived in Denver and worked for about two weeks as a waitress before I was told that due to COVID-19 I would not be receiving a paycheck for the foreseeable future, and that my routine would now include staying at home and social distancing. 

At 23, I’d chosen this as the place to start my new life. I’d fallen in love with the city on a visit a few months earlier. Having spent my college years studying in Burlington, Vermont, I felt the two places had a similar feel. 

I was thrilled for the chance to explore new parts of myself, whether it be career based or simply the chance to try new, outdoorsy hobbies. When my six months of living at home with my parents reached an end, I packed up my things and headed west, to begin my next chapter. 

Read the entire piece here.

I watched love bloom over Zoom. Beautiful things still happen.

By Jenny Stafford / May 8, 2020

When the quarantine began in Colorado, I forced myself to find one small silver lining—now I would have time to take a memoir and essay writing class that I’d been wanting to take for years.

I work as a playwright and director in theater, and usually rehearsals and performances keep me busy. Now, of course, theater is shut down. My life as I have known it—just like everyone else’s—is shut down. It seems like my industry might be one of the last to return.

I’ve been looking for joy wherever I can find it…and I’ve found it in a surprising turn of events in this writing class. 

Read the entire piece here.

During coronavirus, I’ve turned indolence into an art form. No more.

By Veena Raigaonkar / May 21, 2020

Sleeping in.

It’s the biggest change I’ve noticed in my routine.

I sleep in almost every day, even when my father yells from the kitchen, “It’s 8:30, wake up already!”

It’s a wonderful comfort. But it’s also brought a blanket of laziness over me. The mere thought of doing schoolwork makes me groan in annoyance. I say I’ll work out this morning, but I end up saying to myself, “Eh, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Read the entire piece here.

After all these years, it took the coronavirus for me to befriend my parents

By Aditi Ramaswami / May 22, 2020

I stuff my feet in my boots and race out of the house, taking swigs of protein shake at stoplights en route to the office. Hitting snooze a fourth time was clearly a mistake. 

That’s how most of my mornings looked at the top of the year. Some days meant working longer than usual, thanks to the hustle and bustle of the state legislature. One day I made it home around 2 a.m., after slogging through a 16-hour bill hearing. 

When work did end “early,” I’d head to Denver to indulge in dinner or happy hour with my partner or friends, often arriving home only to crawl into bed. I can’t even remember the last time, pre-COVID, that I sat down for a full meal with my parents in our Centennial digs. 

Read the entire piece here.

What my friends’ surprise prom taught me about coronavirus — and life

By Rosstin Ahmadian / May 28, 2020

I met William and Emma over a year ago when I started graduate school. Those two are the quintessential couple in our academic program: They conduct quality research in their respective laboratories, study hard for exams, and still make time for close friends and for each other. 

When the three of us go out for coffee, William always seems to more carefully consider Emma’s contributions to our discussions regardless of how emphatically I attempt to make my points heard. This attention to her extends to all aspects of their relationship but particularly to the gifts that William puts together.

William called me late one April evening, his latest installment to our weekly constitutional of COVID-19 quarantine check-ins. Over the course of our friendship, I had become his trusted advisor on all things special, covert, or both. It was up to me to field his ideas, provide critical analysis on logistics, and discuss implementation strategies for maximum FUN. 

Read the entire piece here.

The common refrain of “Wear a mask…” convinced me to respond with a prose poem

By Marilyn Chambron / July 1, 2020

Oh, they say wear a mask for safety’s sake.  Are they kidding?

Fear grips the heart and throat of merchants when they cannot fully see a black or brown face: male or female. Masks intimidate. Suspect just by being alive. Complicated.

We wish for normal more than others because we are aware what the masks suggest to the “they.”  Only go to the grocery store or the pharmacy.  They understand that we also need food and medicine. Isolated.

Avoid the coffee shops, restaurants, clothing and shoe stores. Those places are not worth the hassle of security guards or police who in their zeal perceive a threat. Shoot first, ask questions later, if they ask at all. Frustrated.

Somehow, by the grace of God, I weathered the most recent coronavirus storm

By Maddy Butcher / December 29, 2020

Someone sent me a playlist of dance songs this morning. By eight o’clock, with two cups of tea in me, I was dancing around my kitchen and living room, feeling relaxed and free of cares.

My dogs watched. “Who is this woman?”

It was different from that night last week when I hit a nadir of pandemic angst. When you reach this moment — I’m guessing most readers have — would you actually call it a low point (nadir) or a high point?

Read the entire piece here.

I lost my amazing dog during coronavirus, but in my mind his wisdom remains

By Ellie Sciarra / January 5, 2021

Hey, grief said. Make the bed. Own the hour. 
Follow the sun, its radiance, reminder to the day, light to open your heart 
to the silence 
to the blue, blue sky.

My mantra of longing is What would Jackson say or do?

A guiding whisper in the middle of the night to take care of your health, do the tests, you are worth each penny. Wasn’t I, he asks?

Read the entire piece here.

This time last year, Colorado had its first COVID cases. And soon after, The Colorado Sun responded by starting this “Write On” column. Now at about 170 pieces and counting, it has offered a chance for Coloradans to share their bewilderment, epiphanies, stories, and heartache of the times. 

Although we were uniformly shocked by the pandemic, there was great diversity among the submissions: Retirees and new graduates. Prose and poetry (and even song!). Urban nature and wilderness nature appreciation. Joyful stories and difficult ones. 

And yet, big commonalities stood out: Honesty. Frankness. Vulnerability. 

I often tell my students, “We have free speech in this country, but not always frank speech.” Lack of genuineness lends itself to all sorts of societal and personal repressions which have serious consequences. I encourage them: “No Hallmark, please, no glossed-over stuff. Give me the real and the raw.”

That’s what this column has done above all else, I think. Allow a space for that. And as one contributor put it honestly, “having courage to sit with darkness makes you a badass.”  

MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.

It sure does. We are badasses. We have risen to the occasion. 

We have been sick or lost income or had hard times—and if not that, we’ve helped those who have. I have to imagine that no one has been unaffected. We’ve felt the buzz of depression, the surprise of unexpected anxiety, the wince of sorrow. Like one of those inflatable punching toys, we’ve been knocked over repeatedly and done our best to bounce back up. 

We’ve gotten used to seeing ourselves in masks and staying at home. We’ve picked up new ways of spending free time—for me, this is most evident in the evenings, when in normal times I’d have been out at dinners or music or theatre, but instead have picked up the guitar and crochet needle and a novel. 

Indeed, our adaptability—isn’t that the thing that gets you sometimes? Makes your heart feel like it’s jumping up and saluting humanity? Case in point: I went on my first big trip of the year a few weeks ago, a safely-distanced cross-country gig to do some reporting, and I had to laugh at the number of cars pulled over in a safe stopping zone, two doors open on the far side with someone mysteriously in between — a sure sign that everyone was avoiding rest-stop and gas-station bathrooms. There was even a certain camaraderie evident here that made me proud that a touch of modesty had been sacrificed in favor of pandemic safety. 

This column creates the same feeling in my heart, and the camaraderie is obvious in these many submissions. It’s hard to go it alone when it comes to big trauma. And why should we? Therein lies perhaps the biggest value of sharing stories—to discover that we are in this aloneness together.

As I pointed out a year ago, in my column that started this series, plenty of evidence shows that writing about hurt and upheaval can help us process and keep perspective. Another reason to write is simply that this obviously a historic time, and to not write about it seems like a serious missed opportunity.

And so we will continue to write. Through those voices, guiding us through the pandemic and beyond, we can continue to reveal and revel in our connections, our storytelling, and our love for Colorado.