I had finally put together a plan I was comfortable with to get on a plane to visit my 92-year-old father in Florida. Focusing on keeping both of us safe, I researched masks, upgraded my non-stop flight seat, planned for a place to quarantine, and secured a rental near the retirement home where he lives for a few weeks so that I would have many opportunities to visit the place, which is mostly on lockdown. I communicated my plan to others, inviting their thoughts and opinions. And at the last minute, I decided to take a COVID test offered by my employer, a measure meant to further ensure my father’s safety as well as mine.
Navigating the airport was far worse than I had imagined. American Airlines had set up a bullpen-style check-in and baggage drop, and there were so many people that the line wound outside the area and into pedestrian traffic. Signs suggested social distancing, but there was no way not to infringe on others’ space. I admonished the man in front of me to pull his mask up from his chin. The woman behind me kept running into my bag, pushing it forward so she could stand closer to me. Even the kiosks, placed six feet apart, were set up in a way where passengers stood close to each other. No one was wiping down screens. The passageway from the kiosk to the baggage drop was thick with people.
Finally rid of my bag, I got to my gate. It was also overcrowded. There was no opportunity to sit away from others. Many passengers were doing their best to stand along the edges; others were sitting with masks down, eating food they had waited for in crowded lines.
COVID test results were to be posted within 24 hours. Forty minutes past the 24-hour point, I refreshed my email one last time before boarding my plane. Ding: my results were in. I had to work through three screens in order to finally click on COVID Test Results. The airline announced seating for first class passengers. And my eyes settled on the words on my phone, in red, that said positive. The trip was aborted.
Three hours later, after a frenzy of apologies and pleas and a long drive back home, I settled into my home office, mentally preparing my asymptomatic self to quarantine from my husband and the world for two weeks.
The responses from my employer, Pima County, and the Arizona Health Department were almost immediate, organized, and kind. I felt grateful that in spite of the dysfunction of our nation’s capitol around managing the pandemic, local resources were timely and helpful. Tracing felt painful: I was guilt-ridden by the idea that I was a carrier who may have infected other people. I notified my hairdresser, a neighbor who works out of her home, since she and I had spent an hour together (albeit masked) at close distance. An office mate was quarantined since we shared a not-so-well-ventilated space. Any other contacts were deemed too short or too distanced to report.
I told a handful of people about my situation. The first question each time was “Where do you think you got it from?” Believe me, I had mentally traced every moment of my time over the previous two weeks. Once. Twice. Again and again. I had been, I would say, 90% careful. I wore a mask when walking through halls at work, set up a shared restroom routine I thought was safe. I limited my time in public. Besides the haircut and work, I had gone to the grocery store twice and Target once, both with short lists and limited exposure time. I kept wipes in the car and used them before and after each trip. I had a few guesses, but honestly, there was really no way to know where I had picked up the virus.
As I retraced my steps, I was acutely aware of the fact that my asymptomatic self had come into contact with many people. My view of the airport experience shifted from fear of contracting the virus to fear that I had spread it to others. And if I, someone who had been careful about my habits and movements, had stood in that bullpen with the virus in my body, surely there were others there, too.
My thoughts alternated between “someone gave me this” and “I gave this to someone.” Blame. Guilt. Shame. I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate those three words over the past few weeks. Each is a noun, and each is an action verb, too. Tracing felt kind of like a form of blame, but I knew it was a functional one that would be helpful to alert others of potential exposure either to me or from me. Feelings of guilt and shame were, well, heavy and difficult to bear.
While I had the virus, I had casual contact with a few people who were also positive. I started paying attention to their words, in emails and on social media, to learn more about their journeys and whether their feelings echoed mine. It turns out that feelings of guilt and shame are common among those of us who have tested positive. Remarks that insinuate blame seem more often to come from those who have not. And yet, neither manifestation is particularly useful as we move forward through a pandemic that is surging rather than regressing.
Which brings me full circle back to a leadership stone I—and many other leaders—have written about: the power of influence. Since contracting COVID-19 and walking through my relatively comfortable quarantine and symptoms, I have wrestled with how to use my influence to positively affect others’ actions. My 90% efforts were not enough to keep me from contracting the virus. I have watched as my workplace and our nation have continued forward, “being careful,” but still subjecting ourselves to potential virus spread. In one instance, I witnessed a communication from a leader telling her subordinates that if they acted irresponsibly and caught the virus, they must also take responsibility for the results of their behavior, including disciplinary action, all while continuing to insist on overall practices that may not keep them safe. This wasn’t a helpful message: it blamed rather than offered support and solutions. A leader should provide a positive path forward, especially in a crisis situation. Right now, my power of influence seems miniscule, and it makes me sad.
What you say and do as a leader are critical to your success. Putting aside blame and feelings of guilt and shame, you must communicate a message that is powerful enough to influence others’ behavior, in a way that makes them feel supported and safe. And then you must demonstrate the same behavior you are messaging. This pandemic continues to rage, and we must all be mindful of our own actions and feelings, as well as those of others. If there has ever been a time where empathy for each other is needed, it is now. Today, I hope sharing my story will remind people of their own power of influence and the power of empathy.