Cicadas. They spend most of their lives underground, but as soon as they emerge, they burst out of their exoskeletons and do their noisy, buggy thing for a few grand weeks. If you live in an area with a 13- or 17-year brood, you know Cicada Sturgis. It’s a thing, man.

Obviously, I’m a fan.

And I’m feeling kind of cicada-like myself these days. It’s the long, long pandemic: the whole world went underground, and now we’re slowly emerging like the first cicadas, wondering, what is this new place? What will life above ground be like?

The Promise of a New World

Living underground for so long is bound to change a person, bound to change all of us. I find there are things I will no longer tolerate in myself–like being a wimpy ally on issues of diversity, equity, and inclusion or obsessing about my weight. I find I care less now about what other people think of my mistakes. I’ve let go of the hope that some day I’ll be less quirky.

In short, I’ve gotten clearer on what I really want from life. Maybe that’s what happens when you live through a time of mass anxiety and grief. The important stuff gets more clear. The less important falls away.

The new me is more creative, more joyous, more content with the now. The new me is more willing to take life as it comes. The new me is happier and more grateful.

Because, hey: if we don’t emerge from life underground as new people, we’ll have wasted a perfectly good opportunity to transform. A friend of mine once told me: never let a good crisis go to waste. He was so right.

Let’s make the most of this rebirth. Let’s cast off the old shell and emerge as something new. Let’s whir and sing until the sun goes down.