Is Covid Still a Thing?

There is something almost comedic about telling people you have Covid in 2026. Not tragic-comedic. More like sitcom-comedic. The kind where a laugh track plays after every line.

“I have Covid.”

“Again?”

Pause.

Then the follow-up, almost always delivered with the same mixture of disbelief and mild annoyance, as if I had personally revived the virus for attention.

“Is Covid still a thing?”

I never know how to answer that question. Because what does it mean for something to still be a thing? Rain is still a thing. Mosquitoes are still a thing. Office politics is unfortunately still a thing. If something exists, inconveniences people, and refuses to die quietly, then yes, it is still very much a thing.

Covid, apparently, did not receive the memo that society had moved on.

So there I was, on the second week of Hari Raya, stuck at home. While the rest of the world was out in their emerald baju kurung, taking family photos under flattering daylight, comparing whose sambal goreng had the best texture, and collecting enough kuih crumbs in their cars to start a bakery, I was indoors with a thermometer, tissues, and a face that looked less festive than a government tax form.

There is a special kind of loneliness that comes with being ill during a season built around visiting. Hari Raya is movement. Doors opening. Slippers outside the gate. Children running through corridors like they are training for national athletics. Uncles asking questions nobody requested. Aunties handing you food with the authority of military commanders.

“Eat.”

“I just ate.”

“Eat again.”

To be sick during Hari Raya is to watch joy happening from the sidelines. It is hearing laughter through your phone speaker while you calculate whether your throat hurts less than yesterday. It is seeing photos of cousins colour-coordinated in pastel while you yourself are dressed like a damp goblin in home clothes.

Still, being forced to stay home does something useful. It makes you think.

Perhaps too much.

And one thought kept returning to me: we human beings are astonishingly quick to forget fragility.

The pandemic years were not that long ago. We remember them in memes now. Banana bread. Video calls. People discovering they disliked their own families after three straight weeks indoors. Suddenly everyone became an amateur epidemiologist. We spoke of variants and vaccines and transmission rates like we were all guest lecturers at medical school.

Back then, mortality was not theoretical. Vulnerability was in the room with us. We washed groceries. We crossed streets to avoid coughs. We looked at strangers the way villagers in horror films look at mysterious travellers.

Now? Someone sneezes beside us and we say, “Allergies, probably.”

We are experts at forgetting whatever makes celebration less comfortable.

I understand why. To live in constant fear is exhausting. No one wants to move through life trembling at every germ, every ache, every suspicious burp after sambal belacan. Caution without joy becomes prison. But joy without caution becomes stupidity wearing perfume.

Somewhere between paranoia and recklessness is adulthood.

The body, after all, is not a machine with unlimited warranty. It is more like an old family car. Sometimes dependable. Sometimes dramatic. Sometimes making a strange sound that disappears the moment the mechanic arrives.

We assume we are fine until we are not.

Recently, I spoke to someone who had been hospitalised for shingles. Shingles is one of those illnesses that sounds almost decorative. Like roofing material. Like something you compare at a hardware store.

“Do you want terracotta tiles or shingles?”

It does not sound like something that can flatten a person.

Yet it can. Painful, debilitating, and serious, especially when untreated or affecting vulnerable people. But because it is not fashionable in public conversation, it rarely enters our imagination. We do not discuss shingles at coffee tables. No one posts inspirational captions about recovering from shingles with sunrise photos.

Some illnesses suffer from poor branding.

If a disease trends online, we respect it. If it does not, we dismiss it.

But the body does not care what is trending.

When the immune system is weakened, strange doors open. A virus lying dormant decides it is time for a comeback tour. A minor infection becomes major. A wound you ignored because you were “busy” suddenly demands centre stage.

Even a scratch from a thorn on a harmless-looking plant can become serious if neglected under the wrong conditions. That is the unsettling truth. Danger does not always arrive dressed dramatically. Sometimes it enters disguised as something small, silly, ignorable.

Much like relatives who say, “I’m only staying five minutes.”

Then they leave after midnight.

Hari Raya itself teaches us many beautiful values—gratitude, forgiveness, kinship, generosity. But I wonder if it should also teach us maintenance. Care. Attention. Listening.

Because while we are busy repairing relationships, we must also remember to maintain the body that carries us to those reunions.

You cannot hug everyone if you collapse in the driveway.

You cannot seek forgiveness if you are in urgent care explaining that the chest pain started after your fourth plate of lontong.

And before anyone gets defensive, let me be clear: I am Malay. I know our festive logic. We say things like, “Just one more piece,” while holding our seventh piece. We insist we are full while reaching for dessert. We speak of moderation the way some people speak of mythical creatures—often referenced, rarely seen.

The table during Hari Raya is not merely food. It is history. Rendang simmered from inherited patience. Ketupat folded with ancestral geometry. Lodeh carrying coconut milk like it has no enemies. Sambal gleaming with threat.

To eat is cultural participation.

But even culture benefits from portion control.

Sometimes that slight heartburn is not random. It is your body filing a complaint. Sometimes the dizziness after rich food is not because “weather hot lah.” Sometimes fatigue is not laziness. Sometimes breathlessness is not age catching up in one afternoon.

Sometimes the body whispers before it screams.

We are terrible listeners when celebration is loud.

We postpone care because joy is scheduled. We say we will rest later, drink water later, see doctor later, monitor symptoms later. Later is one of the most dangerous words in health. Later assumes there will be an uncomplicated future waiting politely for us.

Often there is.

Sometimes there is not.

I do not say this to be gloomy. I say this because maturity is not only learning to forgive siblings, tolerate in-laws, and stop arguing in WhatsApp groups. Maturity is recognising that life remains fragile even when life feels normal.

Especially when it feels normal.

Normality can make us careless.

We think because disaster is no longer headline news, it has retired. We think because masks are off, risk is gone. We think because we survived previous things, we are guaranteed future victories.

But the body has its own calendar. It does not celebrate public holidays. Viruses do not check whether it is festive season. Blood pressure does not say, “Let us postpone until after visiting hours.” Infection does not care that your outfit was expensive.

Nothing humbles vanity like fever.

Being home with Covid this Raya has reminded me that health is often invisible until absent. On healthy days, we barely notice it. We complain about boredom, traffic, slow internet, text messages ending with “Can?” But when health leaves, even temporarily, our desires become embarrassingly simple.

To swallow without pain.

To breathe clearly.

To taste food properly.

To sleep.

To have enough energy to stand in the kitchen without negotiating terms.

Suddenly the glamorous life goals disappear. No one with a fever says, “I wish I had optimised my LinkedIn profile.”

They say, “I just want to feel normal again.”

Perhaps that is why illness can sometimes sharpen gratitude better than motivational speeches ever could.

And maybe being stuck at home during Hari Raya is not only deprivation. Maybe it is instruction.

It tells me that celebrations are precious precisely because they are not guaranteed. That visiting loved ones matters because one day someone will be missing, or unwell, or unable to travel. That laughter around the table is not routine—it is fortune.

It also tells me to stop pretending resilience means invincibility.

We praise people for pushing through. Working despite fever. Hosting despite exhaustion. Travelling despite pain. Smiling through discomfort. Sometimes resilience is admirable. Sometimes it is just denial in formal wear.

Real strength can look boring. Cancelling plans. Taking medicine. Resting. Getting checked. Saying no to another serving. Leaving early. Drinking water. Sleeping.

No dramatic soundtrack. No applause.

Just wisdom.

So while Hari Raya continues outside my window, while messages come in from homes full of chatter and gravy and awkward family jokes recycled since 1998, I sit here with my test kit and my thoughts.

And I think perhaps the most festive thing we can offer one another is not only food or forgiveness.

It is care.

Ask relatives how they are really feeling. Mean it. Notice who looks tired. Encourage check-ups without turning into an interrogator. Let elderly family members rest. Let children nap. Let people decline food without accusing them of betrayal. Keep medicine where it is easy to find. Keep ego where it is hard to access.

And if someone tells you they have Covid, maybe do not begin with, “Again?”

Maybe begin with, “How are you feeling?”

Because yes, Covid is still a thing.

So is shingles.

So is burnout.

So is dehydration.

So is cholesterol.

So is the quiet ache someone has been ignoring for months.

So is fragility.

But so is kindness.

So is caution.

So is recovery.

So is the chance to do better with the bodies and people entrusted to us.

Hari Raya teaches us to return to one another. Perhaps it should also teach us to return to ourselves—to listen, to slow down, to care before crisis forces the lesson.

Now if you will excuse me, I am going to drink warm water, eat plain porridge, and stare longingly at photos of rendang like a man separated from his true love.

Written by: Adi Jamaludin