For as long as I can remember, Lunar New Year has always been a noisy festival. Its noise comes from the people — the people in the live-streamed New Year's Gala who sing, dance, and entertain. The people on the streets who play drums and perform dragon and lion dances. The people around me, in the room, who stay up past midnight in a blur of laughter, chatter, drinks, blessings, and red packets. It is the noise and the people that make it a festival of connection and belonging.

But this year, Lunar New Year was strangely isolating.

With travel and social distancing restrictions in place, my father stayed overseas, and the streets were empty of celebrating crowds. It was just my mother and dog keeping me company on New Year’s Day. The festival passed by noiselessly. We ate a quiet dinner, I finished my homework quietly, and trudged upstairs for an early night of quiet sleep. It is surprising how different the festival becomes when the people and the noise are absent. It was a festival without nian wei — the characteristics of reunion and joviality that usually define Lunar New Year.

I must grudgingly admit that scrolling through social media and seeing other families gathered together around their dinner tables did indeed initiate bitterness, discontent, and a tinge of self-pity on the day. But looking back now, I realize that it was not necessarily a completely negative experience. The noise and the people on Lunar New Year’s Day were always things I had taken for granted. I had never hitherto reflected upon the significance of my family and community to me. Neither had I ever realized how isolating it would be without these connections. So maybe, a little isolation may not always be unwanted. Maybe we need a little isolation to better cherish the connections we hold.