A few years ago, I made myself a weighted blanket. I’ve always been more comfortable if I’m holding a pillow or blanket on my lap or torso. Weird. I know. Even as a passenger in a car, I’ll often tuck my purse or jacket between my body and the seatbelt strap because of the gentle pressure it’ll apply in place of the light, skittish touch of the seatbelt. My weighted blanket quickly became my favorite blanket, especially if I was anxious or not feeling well.

The pressure of the blanket is just right–enough to ground me without making me feel trapped. I love that blanket.

The constant weight I feel now is different. I didn’t choose to drag this weight up my body and tuck it under my chin. I didn’t build this weight out of soft flannel and fleece in soothing colors and patterns. I didn’t select anything about this weight. It drags me down and holds me down like no blanket I’d ever own.

Grief has climbed on top of me, smothering me, and it is no snuggly baby or calming blanket. It’s fully grown, and sports pockets loaded with weight. Weight of longing and regret, of guilty questions and dark imaginings, of miserable firsts–birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Weight I do not want but cannot throw off and leave behind.

Weight that threatens to suffocate me.

But then someone slips an oxygen mask over my mouth and pries up a corner of grief, easing the terrible pressure. Lifting a bit of the weight.

That oxygen is out there—I know this. It’s a short walk or drive away, or in a classroom across the hall. It’s ready and waiting in messaging platforms, on demand in my contact list, awake in the middle of the night in online support groups. And, although sometimes weak, it’s in me. The oxygen is in what I know and believe. The words I write and share are oxygen.

These days, though, I’m so grateful for the people who can see me struggling for that breath—the people who gently place the mask on my face, peel back the grief, and tuck my weighted blanket under chin.

When we hear “Friday Night Lights,” we think football. Maybe we think TV show about a football family.

Not tonight. Tonight, our lights are on to celebrate and honor our seniors. Tonight, our seniors know for sure that they won’t be back in the classroom as high school students.

Sure, we’ve known this was coming. What started as a two-week shutdown turned into a six-week shutdown. Today, with the governor’s announcement, it turned into a rest-of-the-school-year shutdown.

Schools are doing all they can to reschedule spring activities. We hope and pray that our rescheduling works for the spring musical. Assuming people are allowed to gather in large groups, prom will happen. We will have some type of awards day and graduation, but they won’t be what we’ve done in the past. Some things, though, just can’t be rescheduled. We can’t replace a senior year sports season or do a virtual senior walk on their last day of attendance. Some things are just lost. The sun set on our school year today, and we were not ready.

Today, what we’d thought might happen, then thought would probably happen, happened. Somehow, though, the actual finality hurts so much more than the anticipated finality.

Maybe it’s the complete lack of closure. Fourth quarter–the quarter that should be the most fun for all ages–turned into a slop bucket of cancellations and tears, disappointment and anger, sadness and disbelief.

We are all trying to navigate our way through a surreal situation. We wander the streets of a ghost town. We all have every right to be disappointed. Our tears are legitimate. We can feel our sadness; I can feel your broken hearts.

So, students, you don’t have to hide your sadness or fight your emotions; there’s no doubt you’ve been dealt an exceptionally shitty hand. But if it helps, remember tonight. Remember the football lights and the porch lights, the victory bell and the honking horns. Remember that you are loved and that we share your sadness. It will get better; the world will eventually right itself. Right now, though, be how you need to be. We’ve got you.

My mom is a Master Gardener. Truly. She took the course. I . . . Well, I am not. Even though I do nothing to encourage their growth, darling little bloodroot pop up in my sorry excuse for a flower bed around this time each year. I didn’t plant them; they came with the house. I’d like to think they were here before the house. They are, after all, wild flowers and other wild flowers grow in the same spot.

However it happened, whatever the timeline, I love these little flowers. A strong breeze can take their petals, but those same flowers can push up through snow, bloom when it’s still cold out, and survive my ineptitude.

They don’t look strong and if you ask the wind, they aren’t. Their petals are short lived. Beautiful, but brief.

The thing is, every year brings more bloodroot than the last. When the delicate petals fall, the leaves open and get to work.

We’ve all lost some petals in the past two weeks, and more petals are bound to fall. College students are finishing their semester online. Internships are delayed. High school seniors are missing out on the magical lasts that spring of senior year should hold. Winter sports ended without a state tournament and spring sports are on hold. The stage stands silent, awaiting its players. Our collective invincibility is gone. So many petals littering the ground.

But our leaves will open and make us stronger. Our leaves will prepare us for the next round. Our petals are lost for now, but just as the bloodroot—briefly, painfully beautiful—returns stronger and more beautiful each year, so will we.

Nobody knows what to expect. We don’t have a timeline, and the possibilities are terrifying. We may never quite get back what’s been lost, but we can survive. We can survive and grow stronger.

So admire the beautiful petals. Marvel at the tenacity of a tiny flower. Photograph those wispy white delights before the wind blows them to the ground. Then, respect the leaves and let them do their work.