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Back in late April, the lockdowns were shifting from fairly novel to routine, and we were finding a rhythm with them. Even though the news was anxiety-provoking, I noticed that I didn’t feel all that bad. And on some level, I was actually enjoying myself.

Then I felt guilty for being happy. Didn’t the news say that the world was burning to the ground? What was wrong with me? Did I enjoy misery? How could I be so callous as to be okay?

I’ve never been good at keeping a daily gratitude journal, but I’ve always liked the idea. So every once in a while I sit down and write about what I’m grateful for. This time I wrote a list of things I was grateful for because of the pandemic. Not in spite of the pandemic, like my health and my house, but rather things I have because of the pandemic that I wouldn’t have without it.

My list came easily and was quite varied. 4) My oldest child being home from school meant he bonded with his baby brother in a way that will last a lifetime. 15) The watermelon pajama pants I bought on Amazon made me smile. 23) I finally painted the kitchen cabinets because I ran out of excuses. They looked great.

Once I made my list, I had evidence to myself about why I was happy. Proof that I didn’t revel in misery – rather my own little bubble was actually pretty nice. I’ve worked hard over the years to get to this place in my personal life. And so that realization made it okay to be okay. I still care about humanity even though I don’t freak out every day.

Then in mid-August I found myself beginning to let resentment for 2020 seep in around the edges. The routine was getting old. My little bubble was showing signs of wear and tear.

Resentment is a poison that kills us slowly and painfully, morphing us into something else, a shadow of ourselves. Gratitude is the surest cure. So I got my pen out and started another list: How am I grateful for the pandemic?

It was much harder this time around.

I got off to a slow start. 3) I finally incorporated telehealth into my practice. 4) I’ve rediscovered canned biscuits and cut-and-bake cookies. 5) In telehealth, no one can see the ten pounds I’ve gained eating canned biscuits and cut-and-bake cookies.

I was downright passive-aggressive toward my self-assigned exercise. Eventually, though, I started gaining some steam. 9) My baby has been exposed to so few people he hasn’t even caught a cold. 12) The desk we bought for my son’s Virtual School is actually pretty cool. 14) I’m meeting with a friend by Skype every week, when we used to be “too busy” to get together. 17) I’m a third of the way through a massive cross stitch project that is just beautiful, and I’ll finish it if this goes on long enough.

This time the list wasn’t about being okay with being okay. It was about keeping as far as possible from the dark abyss that is despair. Resentment can be the start of a powerful downward pull, and there’s nothing like gratitude to save ourselves from the depths. I needed those tangible reminders that I’ve had some key wins this year, a lot of growth, and even had some fun. It doesn’t minimize the fact that it’s been a hard year and a lot of difficult things have happened, but gratitude reminds me it’s also been a transformative year.

I think it’s important to note what a gratitude list is not. It is not an exercise in “the power of positive thinking.” It is not forcing yourself to think happy thoughts and believe everything is okay. The way I do them, gratitude lists are about acknowledging that, “Yes, things are hard right now, but what else is true?” It’s that, “What else is true?” that helps us pull back from the impulse of all-or-nothing thinking. It softens the edges and opens us up to being multidimensional people.

Gratitude lists often make me feel better. But they aren’t solely about feeling better. They’re about seeing the bigger picture. Balance. Perspective. We could all use a little balance.

The gratitude list exercise is a good, multipurpose tool. I keep it in my toolbox for times when there’s friction between my emotional state and my situation. I’ve never regretted writing one.

Whether you find yourself wondering why you’re okay in these crazy times, or wondering if you’ll make it through, I challenge you to write your own list. What are your gifts from the pandemic?

This has been a difficult year. The COVID-19 pandemic has interrupted human life on every scale. We have international finger-pointing. Nationally, a lack of leadership and political partisan division drives the narrative. At the state level we have budget shortfalls and shifting policies. Local governments are left to manage mask requirements and school formats. Meanwhile, individuals and families are trying to figure out how to pay the bills and stay healthy at the same time.

There have been countless decisions and changes at all levels coming in rapid-fire succession. And there’s no end in sight.

In this global stressor that is upending our daily lives, we’re having some strong emotional reactions. A lot of strong reactions. Anxiety, fear, anger, sadness, grief, depression, helplessness, despair, and restlessness, among others.

The New York Times reported that in June 2019 about one in twelve people in the U.S. met the criteria for an anxiety disorder. In June 2020, one in three people met the same criteria. Basically, we’re all on tilt.

Tilt is the poker term for when something happens in a game – maybe a bad beat, a series of losses, or another player’s bad manners – and we get too emotional. Then we start making poor decisions because we’re emotionally reactive. Maybe we start taking big risks. Maybe we fold every hand. But we’re no longer playing at our best.

In poker, the right course of action when we find ourselves on tilt is to step away from the table: change the scenery, eat a snack, and take a walk to regain equilibrium. Unfortunately, we can’t step away from the table right now. Opting out of the pandemic isn’t possible. The people who are trying are simply in denial.

We all must play the game as the cards are dealt. That leaves us trying to do the best we can under the circumstances.

I’ve noticed the telltale reactivity in myself. Anxiety has been my predominant emotional response, followed by immobilization and exhaustion. It’s felt like one foot on the gas, one foot on the brake, and it’s wearing me out.

For too long I was immersing myself in the news, which fueled my anxiety. I felt driven to read it, but I was left drained and helpless. The problems were too big for me to solve, and it felt as if it were my sole responsibility to solve the world’s problems – no one else was stepping up.

Eventually I had to pull back from reading the news. I’m now checking in to find out what’s going on, but I’m no longer soaking my brain in stress hormones for hours at a time.

I came to accept that the only problems I can control in the situation involve my immediate sphere. So, I shifted my attention to my locus of control: my actions, my immediate family’s actions.

At first, I tried to play a no-stakes game. I locked down my household to almost no exposure to outside germs. My husband was working from home, and I was on maternity leave, so it was possible to try this route.

We bought everything online that we possibly could. We didn’t go to stores or restaurants except for drive-thrus and one trip to the grocery store every three weeks. I went grocery shopping wearing a construction-grade N100 respirator I bought several years ago for stripping paint and spraying pesticide.

Even though our older family members were going out and about more freely than we were, I tried my best to protect them from the virus. I kept my children away from their grandmothers out of a silent terror that a hug was going to kill them all – old and young. It would be my fault when everybody died, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. My anxiety was feeding on itself.

Then a few things happened. My fragile newborn became a healthy infant, and the doctor’s directions changed. Instead of going straight to the hospital in the case of a fever, we were to take Tylenol and call the office for a virtual appointment. The stakes were lowered a little bit.

Next my husband had to go back to work in an office full of people. I had to face that we were going to have some level of exposure to the outside world.

But most of all, I finally got tired of constantly losing.

It was like I was throwing money into the pot every hand, and then promptly folding. I was working so hard, but I was miserable, my family was miserable, and it was simply not sustainable. Knowing it would be many months or longer to wait for a vaccine, I had to make some changes. I couldn’t hide in a house-shaped bunker any longer.

My solution is to play a low-stakes game. While my no-stakes game had worn me down, at least I’d known what my strategy was. Switching to low stakes requires a bit more finesse, but there is enough payoff to keep me enjoying life.

For me, low stakes mean getting out of the house and going into the office and seeing clients by telehealth from there. I like my office, and I need the change of scenery. It’s a big payoff for a small amount of risk.

While husband had to go back to work, we bought him the nicest masks we could find. I even found reusable silicone N99 masks that are comfortable and keep us safer out in the world. We can interact with other people and buy fresh food without much anxiety.

We resumed our weekly dinners with the extended family. I even let the grandmothers hold the baby. But now we’re eating at picnic tables outdoors. It’s the lowest-risk setting for decade-long tradition.

I came to terms with the fact that I am voluntarily accepting a little bit of risk, balanced with a lot of responsibility. I know part of that responsibility is to stay connected in the world for the sake of my loved ones and my sanity, and part of it is to reduce the spread of a deadly disease.

A low-stakes game is requiring a more measured approach and less emotional reactivity on my part. But it’s also lowered my anxiety, freed me up to act, and given me more energy in the present moment.

The key is awareness. Once we’re aware of our deficits, we can decide how to compensate. If we’re blind to them, we’re in danger of shifting from being on tilt to spinning out of control.

We each need to take a deep breath and acknowledge the emotional roller coaster ride. Once we accept that our first reactions might not be our best reactions, we can shift from playing no-stakes, high-stakes, or a haphazard mix to playing a sustainable low-stakes game. That way we can get through this time as physically, mentally, and emotionally intact as possible.

Because this year, we’re all playing on tilt.