March was, to say the least, a deeply disturbing month. It brought sudden, unwanted changes to many lives across the region. Just over a month ago, life looked different. Plans looked different. Even the small, forgettable thoughts of everyday life looked different.

Then came the flood: anxiety, panic, rage, fear, faith, despair. At first, the most important thing any of us could do for our sanity was to stay grounded, present, and focused on the next right thing. Step by step, life began to move again. The panic eased. The immediate shock loosened its grip. We were reminded that life goes on, and that there are systems, people, and institutions working to protect civilians.

And yet, we aren't back where we were.

A loud sound can still send the body into alarm. Cultural events are postponed. If you are flying anywhere, there is always the thought that the flight may be delayed or cancelled. Children are still studying remotely. Life isn't one endless nightmare, but reality has changed shape.

This is the moment when the psyche begins to adapt.

We have seen something similar before. During the first weeks of Covid lockdowns, everything felt surreal and frightening. Then, somehow, we got used to masks, QR codes, and staying at home. That didn't mean we were fine. It meant we were beginning to understand that normality wouldn't return all at once.

And that is where many of us are now: not in the first shock, but in the strange after-state, when life continues, yet doesn't quite feel like itself.

Our bodies aren't designed for long stretches of uncertainty. Stress hormones such as adrenaline and cortisol are wonderfully useful in short bursts: they help us react quickly, stay alert, mobilise energy, and protect ourselves in the face of danger. The brain helps trigger this response through a built-in alarm system, and once the threat passes, the body is usually meant to settle again. But when stress remains present for days or weeks, that system doesn't fully switch off, and the strain begins to spill into almost every part of life — mood, sleep, digestion, concentration, pain levels, even the sense of safety in ordinary moments.

This is why chronic stress can feel so confusing. You may be functioning. You may be working, answering messages, making dinner, showing up for people. But if you are still checking the news constantly, flinching at sudden sounds, planning around possible disruption, or telling yourself you are simply being “a bit more careful”, stress is still there. Even when it isn't loud, it is still present.

So the first step isn't fixing it. The first step is acknowledging it.

The direct danger may have passed, or at least receded. You may know, rationally, that there are people working to keep you safe. But your nervous system doesn't always move at the same pace as the news cycle. Sometimes the body is slower to understand what the mind is trying to accept.

There is another part of this experience that often catches people off guard: the crash.

In the first two weeks of March, I worked almost as usual. I thought in headlines and strategies. I made plans. I kept moving. Then, once the first wave of panic settled, I felt something entirely different: exhaustion, emotional flatness, a kind of inner emptiness.

That, too, is part of adaptation.

When the world feels unstable for more than a few days, the body spends a great deal of energy simply keeping us upright. There is tension, vigilance, scanning, adjusting, coping. And once the initial emergency feeling fades, what often rises in its place is fatigue. Doubt. Resentment. A quiet grief for the version of life that existed only weeks ago.

This moment matters. Because it is often the moment when people assume they are coping badly, when in fact they are simply human.

So what helps?

Routine. Groundbreaking, I know.

Not because routine is magical. Not because structure solves fear. But because repetition tells the body something very important: change is happening, yes, but not everything is collapsing.

This isn't the ideal time for dramatic reinvention. Don't rush into major life decisions simply because everything already feels uncertain. Don't assume that fleeing, quitting, or blowing up your routine will automatically bring relief. Sometimes it does the opposite: it removes the very signals of safety your brain is quietly begging for.

Keep your life as normal as possible. Keep your usual beauty routine. Move your body. Eat properly. Sleep as well as you can. Return to the small rituals that existed before all this. Let your manager know that you may be a little slower or less effective for a while. Let that be true without turning it into a moral failure.

The point isn't to force life back into its old shape. The point is to show your body, patiently and repeatedly, that these changes aren't the end of everything.

And over time, stability grows from that repetition.

This isn't an argument for escapism.

You can still read the news. You can still stay alert. You can still call the people you love more often, just to hear their voices and make sure they are all right. But these things need to become part of life, not the whole of it.

There is a difference between being informed and being consumed.

Doomscrolling keeps the nervous system in a state of constant activation. Gentler habits help more: checking updates at set times, stepping away when you notice yourself spiralling, and making room in the day for things that aren't about fear at all. Even in difficult periods, stress is easier to carry when it isn't the only thing in the room. NHS guidance similarly notes that stress can affect the body, thoughts, feelings, and behaviour, which is exactly why boundaries around it matter.

Because even in the darkest times — and let us hope these pass soon — darkness isn't the whole story.

And finally, this is the part many people need permission to hear:

You still have the right to live your life.

You are allowed to enjoy something, even while someone else is suffering more. You are allowed to laugh. To go out for dinner. To make plans for next month. To care for your skin, your body, your work, your children, your friendships, your ordinary little joys.

Burning yourself out with anxiety will help no one. Draining yourself in guilt will protect no one. Staying permanently on edge isn't the same thing as solidarity.

What helps is staying aware, staying soft, and staying together.

Things won't be exactly the same. At least not for a while.

But they won't always feel this stressful either.

They will change again. And so will we.