When the world changed, I did too.

It started with a feeling that something wasn’t right. Not just in the world outside my front door, but in the people around me, and eventually, within myself.

At first, I went along with it like everyone else. The lockdown was announced, and I felt, like so many did, a strange mix of apprehension and novelty. It was surreal. But even in those early days, I remember thinking: This all feels a bit… over the top, doesn’t it? I told myself the authorities were probably just being cautious, preparing for the worst-case scenario. That’s what they do, right?

But it wasn’t just caution. What unfolded in the weeks and months that followed felt like something else entirely. I was disconcerted by the unrelenting tone of fear from the government and the media, night after night, the same doom-laden messages, the same rolling death tolls, the same press conferences steeped in anxiety and alarm. And then those slogans everywhere: “Stay Home. Protect the NHS. Save Lives.” “No one is safe until everyone is safe.” People banging saucepans on their doorsteps. Neon signs everywhere reminding you to stay apart and, perhaps, to stay afraid. It didn’t feel like solidarity to me. It felt performative. Conformist. Almost cultish.

I couldn’t join in. Not because I didn’t care, because of course I care about the NHS, and about people’s health, but because deep down, I felt something was off. The whole thing felt constructed and artificial. Like we were all trapped inside a global theatre production no one had auditioned for.

I remember one incident distinctly, a small thing, but one that crystallised just how different my perspective had become from those closest to me. A couple of months into the first lockdown, I came across a podcast interview with a retired UK Supreme Court judge. Because he was no longer on the bench, he was free to speak openly, and what he said took my breath away. He warned that lockdowns were a disaster for democracy. That they undermined fundamental freedoms. That they were devastating for society both in the immediate and longer term, especially for young people and the elderly. Finally, I thought, Someone with authority, someone with standing, saying what I’d been feeling. I was elated, relieved. This, I thought, is what people need to hear.

I sent the interview to some close friends and family on WhatsApp, expecting enthusiastic agreement. But as the hours and then days passed with no response, I remember wondering at that silence, letting it settle in, feeling a mixture of confusion and sinking realisation: Do they not agree with this? Do they think lockdowns are a good thing? Am I the only one who thinks this is all wrong?

That was the first moment I became aware of a quiet difference growing between me and those I loved, not a rupture, but a subtle, painful distance that had never been there before. I found it deeply isolating to live in the same world as they did, yet see that world through a completely different lens.

Over time, as that first lockdown year unfolded in all its insanity and cruelty, I came to understand something painful but true: I wasn’t going to find alignment, or even conversation, with those I loved most on this topic. I had to look elsewhere. So I went online. I started searching, listening, reading. And I found voices. A small but steady chorus of writers, podcasters, independent journalists, thinkers, and a handful of doctors who dared to speak out most of whom, heartbreakingly, have now lost their licences or been professionally discredited.

I keep a list of them. Not because I need convincing anymore, but because I don’t ever want to forget those who stood up when it counted. The people on that list helped keep me sane throughout the most surreal, cruel, and disorienting time of my life. Those people were my lifeline. My virtual allies. They reminded me that I wasn’t crazy. That I wasn’t alone. That the truth still existed somewhere.

Because the truth is, I’m not the same person I was five years ago. The world changed, and so did I. I’m more grounded, more aware, more spiritually open. But I’m also sadder. Sadder than I’ve ever been. It’s a strange duality. I’ve never felt more awake or more alive, and yet I’ve never felt more isolated.

Before all of this, I moved through life with my certainties intact. I thought I understood how the world worked. I trusted the government, the institutions, the medical and legal professions and the expert class, too. I trusted authority. I believed I knew who the good guys were. I underestimated the power of psychological manipulation. I overestimated the goodness of the system.

But that’s not all I’ve learned. Alongside the disillusionment, I’ve found something else: something deeper and older than any institution. A connection to God. I was raised Catholic, culturally at least, but this isn’t about religion in the traditional sense. This is about what I now know to be true, which is that good and evil are real forces in this world. And if evil exists, as I believe I have seen it, then so does good. That good, that light is what I now call God.

I saw evil during those lockdown years, not in an abstract or philosophical sense, but in real time, right here in front of me. I saw it in the quiet compliance and seamless functioning of a system that normalised cruelty. I saw it in what Hannah Arendt called the banality of evil, not monsters, but ordinary people, institutions, and policies carrying out monstrous acts without question. I saw governments impose vaccine mandates. I saw people cheer on the creation of a two-tiered society, where the unvaccinated were to be excluded from participating as full members of society. I saw children referred to as “vectors of disease,” stripped of their innocence and their humanity. I saw the elderly discarded, left to die alone in care homes, frightened and forgotten. I got a glimpse into hell.

So now I hold on tightly to what is good, and kind, and human. I hold on to love, to truth, to God. Because without that, none of this makes sense. And with it, well, everything still hurts, but at least it means something.

This is just the start of my story. I don’t know where this Substack will go. I don’t know who will read it, or whether I’ll be speaking into a void. But I do know this: I have something to say, and I’m finally ready to say it.

If any of this resonates with you, welcome. You are not alone. And maybe neither am I.