A few weeks ago, I cried down the phone to my mum.
She was out on a walk with a friend, and, as happens after a particularly difficult day, I found myself spiralling into a whirl of negativity.
"You. Don't. Understand," I said between sobs.
Watch: The things you never say in 2021.
You see, I'm 20 years old.
And this week, I'll be going into my eleventh consecutive week in Sydney lockdown.
She can understand this situation completely, in theory.
She's endured just as many lockdowns as I have. She's dealt with the routine testing at the hint of a cold. She's diligently checked in at every venue. She's even isolated for 14 days after being in the wrong place at the wrong time, while fully vaccinated.
But what she can't understand is the immense loss I've felt for my 'best years' that are wasting away without a Euro trip or club-made vodka raspberry in sight.
It's trivial really.
An extremely privileged grief to experience.
But it's a grief, nonetheless.
2020 was a year I'd spent my whole teenage life dreaming about.
19 years old and fresh out of a four-year-long relationship, I was excited to finally experience the world as was intended for a single uni student with little responsibilities other than assignment deadlines.
And for a moment there, I did.