Can you know a place when you can’t physically explore it? When you and everyone around you are locked within?

Outside my window, I can hear my neighbors’ children laughing. Someone plays a Beatles album. “It’s getting better all the time,” comes through the open window. But despite the Fab Four’s optimistic lyrics, news from health experts is bleak.

It’s not getting better. Instead — with temperatures dropping and Dengue Fever and regular flu seasons beginning — Brazil is headed for a perfect storm of disease.

I sit in the shade of the balcony with my only companion—a small plant I bought at the grocery store. Its leaves are completely shriveled, and I don’t think it will live much longer.

Past the wire fence surrounding the apartment, I see the dense canopy of Atlantic rainforest to my right, peppered with rooftops and billboards.

To my left, I see the crumbling red clay hills of my neighbor’s farm. Yesterday, his cows wandered down for a visit and set up shop under the large tree in front of my window. I was grateful for the company and even tried to name them, although I lost count.

Every day, I speak with my students through a small laptop screen about the state of the world and try to get them animated about English grammar. I see Brazil through their lens. The adults are afraid, anxious and trying to keep it together as I stare at them through the grainy webcam.

The kids are bored, confused and spending a lot of time watching Netflix. They tell me about the fruits of the country that I still need to try, and the beaches and waterfalls that I know I’ll probably never see.

I tell them about indirect questions and that dolphins were seen off the coast of Sardinia and that my grandmother in Oklahoma is still asymptomatic and doing okay.

Each week, I watch Netflix series in Portuguese, trying to make the language sound familiar. I can no longer wander around the Sunday market and chat with the vendors about the region’s world-famous cheeses. I can’t practice at the salon or at the gym with trainer Kleydinho who always greets me with a “Bom dia and good morning!”

I mourn the loss of friendships, of the everyday routine with my students and coworkers. I mourn not being able to go to my friend’s wedding in Rio and not being able to see the Brazilian pen pal I’ve known for 10 years but have never met in person. I mourn the loss of my trip to the Amazon and possibly Patagonia — the place I want to go to more than any place in the world.

But right now, trips and barbecues with students and friends do not matter. What matters is that when it comes to Brazil, those who have less financially will be the most affected by this crisis. And we need to make sure they are protected before reopening anything.

The five friends I met in São Paulo still check in on me, even though we barely spent three days together. They practice Portugueuse with me over Whatsapp, and they send me links to famous Brazilian literature. My friend I met in Belo Horizonte sends greetings and wishes for my family. The owner of the hiking group I met once tells me he is praying for my grandma, it will be OK, and that I will be amazed.

People ask me to meet up with them. I want to so badly. To explore the forests and jungle waterfalls again, but I know that social distancing isn’t a game. I don’t want anyone else’s grandmother to get sick because I couldn’t stay still for a few weeks.

What does it take to really know a place? To breathe and grow with it? To inhale within its red, brown and green heart as I wait with the whole world to exhale at last?

I fantasize about the reunions with my students and then later, with my family and friends. I wonder if everything will continue hurting or if we might be able to build a better world. I ask my best friend if she ever feels relieved because at least now our existential dread seems valid. For once, everyone is on the same page, although some are still in greater pain than others.

People are still in detention centers back home in Texas. Children are at risk, and grandparents are dying. People are still working to death, with no stimulus money or even legal recognition in sight.

Meanwhile, data scientists project over 1.15 million deaths in Brazil if social distancing is not followed. The president here says the sacrifice is worth it.

The lieutenant governor in my home state says older people should be willing to die and that there are more important things than living. I am not sure when my grandmother will be allowed to leave quarantine.

The U.S. president tells people on national television to inject themselves with disinfectant. I fight the urge to livestream my descent into madness.

I adore Brazil. I love learning about the country. I’ve made chronological playlists of the music and deep dove into the history to write articles about protest and revolution. Songs by Gilberto Gil, Gal Costa and Milton Nascimiento surround me. I’ve followed local shops on social media and tried to learn Minas Gerais slang. I am so close and so far from this place.

It hurts to hear my family members are sick from thousands of miles away, and all I can do is fall to the floor of my empty living room and sob. This is better than a normal day. On normal days, I cannot cry.

Sometimes it takes all my energy to pull myself out of bed, put on a smile and ask my students once again, “How are you?” I know they feel the loss, too.

Can you ever really know a place? A group of people? Yourself?

For once, existential questions seem to have relevance. I can pause and breath and think. Sometimes — when the sun shines through to the balcony, and the cows begin to moo and chew loudly — when a small moth lands on me and reminds me of home — I can feel hope.

I hear stories of wildlife reclaiming native lands and air pollution decreasing. I know it will not last, but I want so badly for it to start something new, something better.

I am grateful to have remote work and a support system. To have people who will listen and care. I hope I can be that support for my students and for others. That they know it is OK to not be productive. That it is OK to stop and wait.

This is a moment — a Great Pause. I will be grateful for it.