Navigating COVID-19 Denial and Its Human Toll: A Disability Justice Oriented Therapist’s Perspective

Written By Lauren Linn

Introduction

As the COVID-19 pandemic grinds on, a rift has formed in how people cope and connect. Many are done with masks, distancing, and other precautions, eager to reclaim normal life. Others remain vigilant by necessity or choice and often feel dismayed or dismissed by the world moving on. This divide isn’t just a public health concern; it’s a psychological and social one.

Some questions I’ve been sitting with:

Why do some people so fervently dismiss COVID precautions, even as the virus continues to pose risks?

What is the emotional impact on those who haven’t moved on, especially individuals who are chronically ill or disabled?

And how can we bridge this disconnect with empathy and a renewed sense of collective responsibility and connection?

In this article, I will explore these questions through a psychological and social justice informed lens, informed by therapy insights, public health understanding, and disability justice values.

Why People Dismiss What They Fear

In psychology, denial is a classic defense mechanism that functions as an unconscious way our mind shields us from unbearable fear or guilt. At the start of the pandemic, there was widespread denial of the virus being a threat in many communities. Denial is essentially refusing to accept reality because it is too threatening, which temporarily reduces anxiety. Faced with a frightening new disease, many people found it easier to refuse to accept the virus was a threat, despite objective evidence. By downplaying COVID-19 (“it’s just like the flu” or “it’ll magically disappear”) and its impact, some could avoid the fear of illness and the stress of changing their lives.

In therapy terms, this avoidance protects the psyche in the short term and is fiercely self-protective in function, and at the cost of ignoring real dangers and minimizing the needs of others. This is why it’s common to notice a sense of inner conflict around things like this and public health in general; our brains push and pull us between the ever-challenging reality of personal interest versus collective (and personal) protection.

Beyond outright denial, another psychological force at play is cognitive dissonance, which is the mental discomfort when one’s actions and beliefs conflict. Often, people resolve this discomfort by adjusting their beliefs rather than their behavior. Cognitive dissonance is the feeling of disorientation or panic we experience when forced to challenge our own beliefs.

Consider this analogy: someone who smokes cigarettes daily throughout their life knows intellectually that smoking can be deadly, but tells themself things like, “It won’t happen to me”, “I’ll deal with it if it happens”, and “There’s so much fear-mongering… it’s not as bad as they make it seem” to maintain an illusion of distance from the strongly possible reality of developing heath effects from smoking as well as a false sense of control over something largely uncontrollable.

Similarly, someone who wants to enjoy pre-pandemic freedoms but also cares about others might experience this type of dissonance. Deep down they know COVID-19 is serious and care for others who are more vulnerable, and yet they aren’t taking proper (or sometimes any) precautions, such as masking, testing, and routine vaccinations. To ease the inner conflict and dodge guilt about putting others at risk, they may convince themselves the risk is overblown. In other words, if wearing a mask or cancelling plans feels like an uncomfortable inconvenience, it’s psychologically smoother and easier to latch onto any narrative that justifies not doing those things (e.g. “Masks don’t really work”, “If others are vulnerable, that’s not my problem”, or “That’s unfair that they would try and force their way of handling this on me”). This isn’t usually a conscious decision; it’s an emotional calculus to reduce guilt and preserve one’s self-image as a “good” or “caring” person. It’s the brain’s effort to square up the decision(s) to act in ways that don’t morally and/or ethically align.

Taking COVID-19 seriously requires a hard reckoning with collective responsibility. It’s not easy or fun, and I still catch myself struggling with it at times. None of this work is easy. Far from, in fact, as evident by the amount of controversy and discourse regarding this exact topic. When we acknowledge that our choices could harm someone else, we might feel obligated to change our behavior, and deeply guilty if we don’t. That’s a heavy load to hold, and not everyone is equipped to do so without support and personal growth. I sure wasn’t, until I really committed as a chronically ill person to learning about disability justice, the medical industrial complex, and finding community that helped me find my footing within this severely ableist social structure. I speak on this now as an advocate who is still learning so much about public health and the many systems connected to it. Please know this isn’t me preaching at anyone — I have a long way to go, and I’m not proud of the time I spent burying my head in the sand, hoping to survive through ignorance and naivety, only to realize the only way to truly survive is to open my eyes, learn, and show up.

Back to the point: It can be more comfortable to reject that responsibility altogether. On that note, a large 2021 survey found that many people who ignored public health guidelines did so to preserve a sense of personal freedom and normalcy . The most common reasons given for flouting COVID rules were “wanting life to feel normal” and desiring to exercise personal freedom. Other reasons included believing “COVID-19 was a hoax or not a major issue,” thinking their behavior “was no one else’s concern,” (Bennett, 2023) not wanting to be judged by others, or simply assuming “I have no symptoms, so I’m fine”. Notice how many of these justifications serve to minimize feelings of blame or guilt: If it’s “not a big deal” or “nobody else’s business,” I don’t have to feel responsible for others, only myself. 1+1=2.

On top of that, pandemic fatigue is real and valid from a psychological perspective! After years of stress, fear, social isolation, illness, and tragedy, people are exhausted and eager to escape the constant worry, and reasonably so. Still, psychologically, insisting the danger is gone can be a form of wish fulfillment (if I act like it’s over, maybe it really is). Unfortunately, these defense mechanisms – denial, avoidance, rationalization – while understandable as coping tactics, come at a high cost.

By deflecting the discomfort onto “COVID isn’t a problem” narratives, people may feel less anxiety or guilt in the moment, but they also lower their guard against a very real threat. In therapy, we often gently remind clients that avoiding what we fear usually prolongs our pain or spreads it to others. In the context of a pandemic, denying the collective risk might soothe one’s psyche, but it prolongs the crisis for everyone including oneself. Delayed discomfort is a mirage; you can only delay it so long before reality does its thing whether we are ready or not.

The Impact on Those Who Are COVID-Conscious

For people who continue to take COVID-19 precautions seriously, encountering dismissal, mockery, and judgment can be deeply painful. It’s not just about hurt feelings; it’s about feeling unsafe and invalidated in a world that often seems to have moved on. Many cautious individuals (sometimes derided as “overly anxious” or “paranoid”) have been treated as alarmists for simply trying to protect themselves and the community around them and at large.

Stories abound of people being scoffed at for wearing masks or asking others to test before gatherings. Many of my immunocompromised clients describe seeing those around them ignore safety measures, mocking and defying the rules, and calling them ridiculous for having a reaction to that experience.. Such social invalidation can heighten anxiety and isolation. If your peers belittle your legitimate caution, you may start to question yourself even though the danger is real, scientifically speaking. Worse, being the only one in a mask at work or the lone family member who won’t attend a big indoor wedding can be deeply lonely, especially when these kinds of difficult choices are colored as over-reactions and selfishness.

Humans are social creatures; feeling alienated or ridiculed by your community is a heavy pain, further exacerbating feelings of loneliness and stress. In therapy, I validate that it’s normal for folks to feel anger, frustration, or despair when their concerns are waved away like this. They might experience increased anxiety, not just about the virus but about their social standing as a sense that no one understands or cares about what they are going through sets in. This further escalates the hyper-vigilance for COVID-19 and related risks. If a person feels they are the only one around them who cares, then they feel they have to hold the care for everyone. Over time, repeated invalidation or ridicule can even contribute to depression, the development of panic attacks, and estrangement.

It’s a hard and unfair expectation to stay mentally well when the people around you trivialize your genuine fears and the precautions you take to stay healthy and protect others’ health as well. Human beings have always needed community. When your community feels more like a threat than a comfort, psychological distress is nearly inevitable.

The toll of the pandemic is particularly acute for chronically ill and disabled people, including those who are immunocompromised or immunosuppressed. For them, caution isn’t an overreaction or a choice — it’s often a matter of survival. And yet, this marginalized community has watched much of society abandon the very precautions that once allowed them some participation in public life. Many describe feeling as though the world has decided their lives are expendable.

Dismissing COVID as a “mild cold,” as many tend to do — especially now — reflects an ableist perspective and promotes a false sense of safety in a global pandemic that is ongoing and disproportionately impacts disabled people. The absence of government-mandated lockdowns doesn’t mean COVID is over or belongs in the past tense. What may be a mild infection for an able-bodied person can be catastrophic for someone with underlying conditions. Negating and ignoring that reality — whether we’re willing to sit with the discomfort or not — sends a clear message to a large, vulnerable community: your fears aren’t valid, and your lives are disposable. If reading this brings up a defensive reaction, I encourage you to pause and reread it from a perspective different from your own. This is how we practice empathy, which is one of the most necessary elements to building a more affirming social culture.

When others dismiss COVID as “no big deal,” disabled and high-risk individuals hear a painful subtext: your risk (and by extension, your life) doesn’t matter to us. This sense of being devalued by society can be devastating. In counseling sessions, clients managing chronic illness and disability have expressed grief and anger that so many people act as if the continued danger to vulnerable groups is negligible or acceptable, and they are completely valid in that experience and perception.

The practical consequences are stark: as mask mandates, remote work options, and other accommodations have vanished, many feel increasingly unsafe and unwelcome in public spaces. Activities that others happily resume, like dining out, traveling, and attending events, may still be off-limits or very risky for them. “Now that many people’s perception of COVID is changing, these accommodations are going away… people feel like society… [is] moving on without them and they’re being ‘left behind’”, (Shakespeare, T., Ndagire, F., & Seketi, Q. E., 2021) observed one clinical psychologist. This left-behind feeling is more than just “FOMO” (fear of missing out). It is a profound sense of exclusion and devaluation that is rooted in objective versus subjective reality. Imagine for five years you’ve avoided crowds, missed or adapted holiday celebrations, and lived in semi-lockdown to stay safe, and as others celebrate “returning to normal,” you grapple with the personal reality that “normal” still doesn’t, and likely never will, exist for you, and most people do not care in a way that moves beyond words and into action. In other words, saying you care and demonstrating it are two very different things, and the former ultimately does nothing for anyone but you and your conscience. People with disabilities and chronic illnesses often already faced social isolation pre-pandemic, and now the gap has widened even further. I often hear questions from my clients and the chronic illness community like, “Doesn’t anyone care that I can’t safely join in? Am I the only one still worried? Is anyone concerned or even considering me?” Beneath these questions is often a deep sense of despair, coupled with grief for the support systems and anti-ableist society they deserve—but, through no fault of their own, do not have.

People often grieve the sense of safety in public they used to have (or maybe never did), the relationships strained by differences in risk tolerance, and the trust they had in friends who maybe have stopped inviting them or stopped respecting their precautions. Therapists see parallels between this experience and other forms of social trauma. Chronic invalidation, which is when others constantly tell you that you’re overreacting or overly-sensitive, erodes self-esteem and emotional well-being. By contrast, feeling seen and supported in one’s efforts to stay safe can be powerfully protective. This is why it’s so crucial, as we’ll discuss in a bit, for communities to practice empathy and make space for different comfort levels. For the COVID-cautious, having even one friend or ally say, “I get why you’re still careful, and I’m here for you” can make a world of difference in alleviating anxiety and isolation. It translates to, “I believe you, you’re valid, and I am not going to abandon you.”

The mental health impact on these individuals and their loved ones is significant. They juggle the fear of catching a virus that could hospitalize or kill them with the stress of being disconnected from community life. They may also carry resentment (and then guilt for feeling resentful — another common internal experience) as they watch friends or family minimize a threat that, for them, is ever-present. It’s a heavy emotional burden: anxiety about health, loneliness from continued semi or full isolation, and sadness or anger that society’s message seems to be “your life is less important than our convenience.”

In disability justice circles, activists have voiced this hurt plainly: “able-bodied people’s convenience is not worth more than disabled people’s lives” (Berne, 2023). These words echo a plea for recognition that physically vulnerable and disabled individuals should not be treated as collateral damage in the rush to move on.

The Role of Collective Effort in Public Health

Public health, at its core, is built on the idea that we’re all in this together. History has shown repeatedly that collective action saves lives in crises of all kinds, including health. A powerful example is the eradication of smallpox. Smallpox was a deadly disease that ravaged humanity for centuries, and yet it was vanquished in the 20th century through a massive, coordinated global vaccination campaign. In 1980, the World Health Organization declared the world free of smallpox, noting that humanity’s victory was achieved “thanks to an incredible demonstration of global solidarity” (Ghebreyesus, 2020). In other words, millions of people rolled up their sleeves, health workers fanned out across countries, nations cooperated, and together we wiped out a virus that killed 300 million people throughout that period. This is the resounding power of collective effort. Similarly, other public health victories — from improving sanitation to distributing polio vaccines — have relied on communities banding together and individuals taking actions not just for themselves but for the greater good. In the context of COVID-19, the principle is the same: measures like masking, vaccination, testing, and staying home when sick are most effective when most (ideally all) of us do them, consistently and reliably. Infectious disease control is a classic “team project.” If only a few people participate, the virus keeps spreading. But when a critical mass of people make safe choices, infection rates drop and everyone benefits, including those who can’t protect themselves as well, such as people with weakened immune systems. We often talk about herd immunity in vaccination, or the idea that when enough people are immune, it shields the whole community. That concept is really about collective protection: I get vaccinated not only to protect myself, but to contribute to a wall of immunity that also safeguards my neighbors.

The COVID-19 pandemic made it clear how different mindsets impact public health outcomes. Cultures and communities that prioritize individualism, where personal rights and freedoms are placed above all else, responded differently from those that emphasize collectivism (Lu, J. G., Jin, P., English, A. S., 2021). Studies have shown that the more individualistic a country is, the worse its COVID-19 outcomes tend to be in terms of both cases and deaths. One cross-country analysis found that societies with strong individualistic values had higher rates of non-compliance with measures like masking and distancing, which led to higher infection rates (Yudell, M., et al., 2020).

By contrast, communities grounded in collectivist values, where people are more willing to act for the common good, saw better adherence to public health guidelines and lower rates of transmission. This isn’t about blaming any one culture. It’s about recognizing a fundamental truth: pandemics reveal the consequences of our inability to act together. When people say, “I’ll do what I want; it’s not my problem if others get sick,” viruses like SARS-CoV-2 spread more easily and inevitably find the most vulnerable among us. In the United States, for example, the emphasis on personal liberty led some leaders and communities to reject mask mandates and business closures early in the pandemic. Meanwhile, many Asian countries, having more recent experience with outbreaks like SARS, adopted collective measures more quickly. Mask-wearing became a common practice, not just to protect oneself, but to protect others. The outcome was clear. Communities that embraced a collective response saw better control of the virus from the start.

The truth is, a “me first” approach in a pandemic just doesn’t work. If I insist on my freedom to go to work sick or refuse to wear a mask in a crowd, I may be exercising a personal right, but I’m also putting dozens of others at risk. That risk circles back to me, my family, and my community. In a pandemic, everyone’s choices affect everyone else. That’s just how it works. We can’t separate the word “public” from the word “health.” No single person can stop a virus alone, but each of us plays a role in preventing its spread and helping achieve containment. From where I sit, and based on everything the research tells us, the only way out of a global pandemic is through collective action, not individualism. And I would go so far as to say that the only way out of any collective crisis, whether it’s a pandemic, social injustice, or climate change, is through collective action. Logically, how could it be any other way? We live in a world where every action creates a response and where balance depends on mutual responsibility. When the stakes are high, the response has to match the scale of the problem. Ten people harming one person is devastating, but when ten people stand up for that one, the dynamic shifts entirely. Now imagine if all ten were standing up for ten others. The balance of power, safety, and well-being changes exponentially.

The more severe and widespread the challenge, the more unified and decisive our collective response needs to be. That’s why it’s called public health. It’s not about individual choices in isolation; it’s about how we move together, act in service of one another, and recognize that our health is deeply interconnected.

Public health is not just about epidemiology, but also about ethics and equity. A society’s true values are revealed in how it cares for its most vulnerable members. Throughout COVID-19, a painful ethical debate has played out: Do we prioritize “getting back to normal” for the majority, or do we prioritize protecting those at highest risk? In truth, this is a false choice as compassionate, science-based policies can often do both, but at times it has been framed as an either/or. From a disability justice perspective, the answer is clear that we have a moral obligation to not leave high-risk people behind. Early in the pandemic, we saw uplifting examples of collective effort to shield those at risk (neighbors shopping for immunocompromised neighbors, governments mandating accommodations, etc.). However, as the crisis dragged on, a narrative of “personal responsibility” took hold in some places, essentially saying that if you’re worried or vulnerable, it’s on you to protect yourself. The rest of us are moving on. Public health experts have criticized this stance, noting that making the pandemic response a matter of individual choice “undermines the overarching aim of public health,” which by definition “requires the support of institutions and communities,” (Pineda, V. S., & Corburn, J., 2020) When we shift all the burden to establishing personal safety onto individuals, we abandon one of the key tools that has always gotten us through crises: solidarity.

It’s also profoundly unfair. Emphasizing individualism in a pandemic tends to harm those who already face health disparities. As one commentary noted, the insistence on personal choice “has negative implications for disadvantaged populations and communities of color”, (Piepzna-Samarasinha, L. L., 2018) who suffered disproportionately in COVID’s first years . The same is true for disabled and elderly populations. A society that says “every person for themselves” is effectively saying that people at higher risk are less worthy of protection. This contradicts the principle of health equity and basic compassion. In contrast, framing our pandemic response around collective responsibility means actively deciding that everyone’s life has value, and we each will sacrifice a bit of comfort or convenience to uphold that value. It means, for example, continuing to wear a mask in healthcare settings or on public transit not because you personally fear COVID, but because you know it could save someone else’s life and that’s as good of a reason as any. It means employers providing flexible work options and paid sick leave so that workers don’t have to choose between a paycheck and public safety or personal health. In practical terms, a collectively-minded approach might look like communities setting thresholds for when to reinstitute certain precautions (if cases spike), schools upgrading ventilation for cleaner air always, or friends routinely checking in and acknowledging reality and its impact.

From a historical and ethical viewpoint, collective action is not the enemy of freedom, but the enabler of true freedom for all. It’s what allows the most people possible to live, thrive, and participate in society. Public health successes (smallpox eradication, clean water laws, seatbelt mandates, smoking bans in public places) have sometimes asked individuals to accept small inconveniences for the common good, and in return yielded huge gains in safety and longevity. The COVID pandemic, messy as it’s been, is another arena where re-learning this lesson is crucial. A virus doesn’t care about our politics or our personal preferences. It spreads wherever it can. But when we act together, we form a shield that even a virus has trouble penetrating. As Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus (WHO’s Director-General) reminded the world, our past victory over smallpox “is a reminder of what is possible when nations come together to fight a common health threat” (Ghebreyesus, T. A., 2020). The same principle applies at the community level. When neighbors, families, and institutions come together to protect each other, remarkable things happen. Transmission slows, lives are saved, and we inch closer to resolving the crisis.

Embracing collective effort doesn’t mean ignoring individual needs. In fact, it means elevating the needs of those most at risk and asserting that no one is disposable. In a very real sense, public health is a team sport, and disability justice advocates have been urging us to remember that disabled lives are worthy and demand a team response that reflects that value.

Moving Forward: Solidarity, Empathy, and Action

So how do we begin to heal this divide between COVID-cautious and COVID-dismissive approaches? How can we foster a climate where precautions aren’t a flashpoint for social conflict, but rather a topic of mutual respect and care? The answer starts with two key ingredients: validation and empathy. People on all sides of this issue have been through a lot of fear, stress, and loss in the past few years. Acknowledging that, as well as the feelings driving each person’s stance, is critical. In a therapeutic context, one of the first steps in resolving any interpersonal tension is making sure everyone feels heard and understood. We don’t have to agree with someone, but understanding why they feel how they feel is more productive than dismissing them. Likewise, those who are more relaxed need to understand that the more cautious individuals aren’t trying to judge or inconvenience them. They are managing very real anxieties and risks. Validation doesn’t mean validating false information; it means validating the human emotions beneath the behavior. For example, we might say to a friend, “I get that you’re tired of living in fear and you hate the restrictions,” while also saying to another, “I totally understand that you’re afraid and want to be extra careful.” Both of those feelings are valid, and by starting there, we set a tone of respect.

Instead of an argument over who is “right” about COVID, we can reframe conversations to focus on understanding each other’s needs and finding common ground. It helps to remember that, ultimately, most of us want the same things! Health, freedom, and a life where we don’t have to worry so much. The disagreements are about how to get there. Approaching these tough talks with curiosity instead of hostility can make a big difference. As one guide from University of Colorado advises, “Approach difficult conversations with empathy and understanding… Be empathetic and know that ambivalence is normal… Try to understand what is important to them… Avoid making assumptions about why people are resistant,” (University of Colorado Boulder, 2021). This kind of approach mirrors techniques therapists use in conflict resolution: actively listen, don’t rush to judgment, and speak from your own perspective rather than hurling accusations. For instance, if you’re the cautious one, you might calmly explain, “I feel really anxious about the idea of eating indoors right now because I have family at home I worry about.” And if you’re the more lax one, you might say, “I feel frustrated not by you, but by restrictions because socializing is how I cope, but I don’t want to put anyone at risk. Can we talk about a way to meet that works for both of us?” By framing it as each person expressing their feelings and needs, you create space for problem-solving rather than an argument. It’s us versus the problem, or you versus me, and the former is far more productive.

Respect is a two-way street. People who continue to be cautious deserve to have their choices respected—without mockery, pressure to “loosen up,” or suggestions to “live a little.” At the same time, those who have chosen to loosen their precautions also need understanding. Constant shaming or scolding rarely changes minds; it usually breeds defensiveness and shuts down dialogue. A more productive conversation starts by acknowledging that different risk tolerances exist. We can say, “Okay, you’re comfortable with X, and I’m only comfortable with Y. That’s where we are. So how can we work within that difference to find a solution?” Sometimes the answer might be agreeing to disagree and making separate plans. Other times, it could mean finding a middle ground.

I can’t say it enough: empathy is crucial here (and everywhere). And the only way to foster it is by imagining yourself in the other person’s shoes. If you’re eager to get back to normal, try to imagine what it’s like to live with a health condition where there never was a version of “normal” to return to. And now, on top of that, there’s COVID, which is uniquely dangerous and frightening. You might find yourself making the same cautious choices as your friend. On the other hand, if you’re very COVID-cautious, consider that your less concerned friend might be dealing with pandemic burnout, financial pressure, or isolation-related depression. That could be influencing their choices just as much as facts or beliefs about the virus.

When people feel understood, they are more open to conversation and more willing to consider other perspectives. In contrast, if someone feels judged or ridiculed, they are far more likely to shut down, or come out swinging. A helpful starting point is to focus on the shared goal: “We both want to see each other and have fun. We both want everyone to feel safe. Let’s figure out how to do that.” This shifts the conversation from me versus you to us versus the problem. In this case, the challenge of managing risk in a way everyone can live with.

One concrete area for action is supporting the people in our communities who continue to take COVID precautions, especially high-risk individuals. Even if you personally have moved on, there are compassionate steps you can take to make sure your COVID-conscious friends, family, or coworkers don’t feel alienated or unsafe. Here are a few therapist-approved and public-health-aligned suggestions:

  • Normalize Precautionary Behaviors
    Whether you’re hosting a get-together or just spending time with coworkers, it helps to make precautionary behaviors feel like no big deal. Small gestures, like having extra masks or hand sanitizer on hand, picking restaurants with outdoor seating, or choosing to mask up after traveling, can go a long way. They let your COVID-cautious friends or colleagues know that you respect their boundaries and don’t see their choices as a hassle.

  • Respect Boundaries
    If someone turns down an invitation because they’re not comfortable, take it in stride and avoid pushing back or making dismissive comments so as to not come across as invalidating. A simple “We’ll miss you! Let’s find another way to connect soon” keeps the door open without pressure. Similarly, don’t tease someone for masking or imply they’re being over-the-top. A better approach is to ask if there’s anything you can do to support their comfort. For instance, if a colleague wears a mask in meetings, you could offer to mask as well. That kind of gesture shows solidarity and can ease the discomfort of feeling like the odd one out.

  • Stay Connected
    Being cautious doesn’t mean someone wants to be isolated. If big events are off the table, suggest alternatives, like a one-on-one outdoor coffee date, a movie night over video chat, or a takeout picnic in the park. Even a quick text or phone call to check in can make a huge difference. Thoughtful outreach helps counter the loneliness that can come with being careful, and it reminds people they’re still part of the social fabric.

  • Be Mindful of Your Language
    The way we talk about the pandemic matters. On social media or in group chats, avoid mocking people who are still cautious or celebrating “ditching masks” without context. You can absolutely share your joy about returning to “normal” activities, but a little nuance goes a long way. Something like, “It feels good to travel again, and I know that’s not possible for everyone,” acknowledges others’ realities. And if you’re comfortable, using your platform to amplify voices of those at higher risk or to share accurate information can help shift the narrative. Gently pushing back on misinformation or shaming in conversations also make a difference. Something as simple as, “I have a friend with long COVID, so I get why people are still being cautious,” can open minds and create space for compassion and self-reflection.

  • Support Inclusive Policies and Collective Care
    On a larger scale, advocate for changes that make shared spaces safer for everyone. That could mean encouraging your workplace to offer hybrid meetings, supporting improved ventilation, or backing flexible sick leave policies. In schools, it might look like keeping air purifiers in classrooms or having transparent communication about illness. These kinds of changes don’t just help high-risk individuals — they improve quality of life for everyone. Supporting public health efforts, volunteering with mutual aid groups, or voting for leaders who prioritize equity and access are all ways to put collective care into action. Centering those most impacted isn’t just the right thing to do, it’s how we build communities that are truly inclusive and resilient.

Conclusion:

Moving forward in this pandemic (and in future public health challenges) requires bridging the empathy gap. We’ve seen how fear can lead to denial, and how denial can wound those who don’t have the privilege or luxury to ignore the threat. If there’s one takeaway here, I hope it’s that we need each other. A pandemic by definition affects the public, and the solutions must be publicly shared and supported by the collective will. That starts on the personal level with simple human empathy: listening to each other’s fears, validating feelings even when we choose different behaviors, and refusing to other-ize those who are more cautious or more ready to move on.

As a therapy practice, we urge a stance of compassionate understanding. We can validate the very real trauma and exhaustion that lead some to dismiss COVID precautions, and we can validate the very real anxiety and risk that lead others to remain vigilant. Both experiences can exist in the same reality. Through open dialogue, creative compromise, and a healthy dose of kindness, families and communities can navigate these differences.

Finally, embracing a collective mindset doesn’t mean sacrificing personal well-being. It actually enhances it. When you know your community has your back, stress is lower for everyone. Validation and empathy create a positive feedback loop: they build trust, and with trust, public health measures become easier to discuss and implement cooperatively. The pandemic has tested our social standards, but it has also taught us that public health and justice are inseparable. We can’t throw out concern for others and expect to be mentally or physically healthy as a society. By reframing COVID precautions not as a burden or a political statement, but as a collective care practice — a way we show care for ourselves and each other — we can hopefully reduce the stigma and conflict around them. In doing so, we honor both the scientific reality of what it takes to control an infectious disease and the humane reality that we all do better when we all care for each other.

Let’s move forward with the understanding that looking out for each other deserves to be a societal value. Maybe that means throwing on a mask at a crowded pharmacy during flu season or just giving someone a little extra space if that’s what they need to feel comfortable. The point is that these small, thoughtful choices add up. They say, “I see you, I respect you, and I care.” And really, that kind of care and connection is what helps us not just get through tough times, but begin to heal from them.

References

  1. Denial as a defense mechanism in pandemic responses:

    • Taylor, S. (2019). The Psychology of Pandemics: Preparing for the Next Global Outbreak of Infectious Disease. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing.

    • Van Bavel, J. J., et al. (2020). Using social and behavioural science to support COVID-19 pandemic response. Nature Human Behaviour, 4(5), 460–471. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41562-020-0884-z

  2. Cognitive dissonance and pandemic behavior:

    • Festinger, L. (1957). A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance. Stanford University Press.

    • Xu, P., Cheng, J., Wang, B., et al. (2021). The role of cognitive dissonance in mask-wearing and vaccine hesitancy during COVID-19. Journal of Health Psychology, 26(9), 1169–1179. https://doi.org/10.1177/1359105321996572

  3. Pandemic fatigue and avoidance of collective responsibility:

    • World Health Organization. (2020). Pandemic fatigue: Reinvigorating the public to prevent COVID-19. https://apps.who.int/iris/handle/10665/335820

    • Chu, H., Liu, S. (2021). Integrating health behavior theories to predict American’s intention to receive a COVID-19 vaccine. Patient Education and Counseling, 104(8), 1878-1886. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.pec.2021.01.031

  4. Emotional toll and social invalidation of COVID-conscious individuals:

    • Lannin, D. G., et al. (2016). Reducing the stigma associated with seeking psychotherapy through self-affirmation. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 63(1), 110–119. https://doi.org/10.1037/cou0000108

    • Luthar, S. S., & Cicchetti, D. (2000). The construct of resilience: Implications for interventions and social policies. Development and Psychopathology, 12(4), 857–885. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0954579400004156

    • Michaels, P. J., López, M., Rüsch, N., & Corrigan, P. W. (2012). Constructs and concepts comprising the stigma of mental illness. Psychiatry Research, 199(3), 311–320. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.psychres.2012.05.030

  5. The burden on chronically ill and disabled communities:

    • Pineda, V. S., & Corburn, J. (2020). Disability, urban health equity, and the coronavirus pandemic: Promoting cities for all. Journal of Urban Health, 97, 336–341. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11524-020-00437-7

    • Shakespeare, T., Ndagire, F., & Seketi, Q. E. (2021). Triple jeopardy: Disabled people and the COVID-19 pandemic. The Lancet, 397(10282), 1331–1333. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(21)00625-5

  6. Collective action and public health success stories:

  7. Individualism vs. collectivism and pandemic outcomes:

    • Lu, J. G., Jin, P., English, A. S. (2021). Collectivism predicts mask use during COVID-19. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 118(23). https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.2021793118

    • Biddlestone, M., Green, R., & Douglas, K. M. (2020). Cultural orientation, power, belief in conspiracy theories, and intentions to reduce the spread of COVID-19. British Journal of Social Psychology, 59(3), 663-673. https://doi.org/10.1111/bjso.12397

  8. Ethical responsibility and disability justice in public health:

    • Piepzna-Samarasinha, L. L. (2018). Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice. Arsenal Pulp Press.

    • Berne, P. (2015). Disability Justice – A Working Draft. Sins Invalid. https://www.sinsinvalid.org/blog/disability-justice-a-working-draft-by-patty-berne

    • Yudell, M., et al. (2020). Public health ethics: A call for leadership. American Journal of Public Health, 110(9), 1321–1323. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2020.305847

  9. Communication strategies for empathy and validation in health contexts:

    • Gottman, J., & Silver, N. (1999). The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work. Harmony Books.

    • Patterson, G., Grenny, J., McMillan, R., & Switzler, A. (2011). Crucial Conversations: Tools for Talking When Stakes Are High. McGraw-Hill.

    • University of Colorado Boulder (2021). Approaching difficult conversations during COVID-19. https://www.colorado.edu/health/approaching-difficult-conversations-during-covid-19

Lauren Linn https://www.everybodytherapyny.com
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