I live in San Diego, California, far from the epicenter of the coronavirus, but my entire family is from―you guessed it―Wuhan. My parents taught me to always value my Chinese identity, to be proud of being Chinese, no matter what people thought.

My roommates wake me up at 3am. This in itself is not unusual. In the eight months I have lived in Vienna during my gap year , I have adapted to the irregular sleeping patterns of my 20-something flatmates. What is unexpected, when I stumble out of bed to ask what’s happening, is the reason behind the ruckus: “We’re leaving. They’re closing the border.” Four hours later, I find myself the sole inhabitant of a Viennese apartment. My ex-roommates are already somewhere over the Atlantic, having booked the first U.S.-bound flight they could find. Meanwhile, I’m pulling up youtube clips of the news briefing that spurred their panic.

In that week, changes came at a rapid pace. School was postponed: first for two weeks, then a month, and then indefinitely. All trips and activities were suspended. All of a sudden, Chinese New Year wasn’t even Chinese New Year anymore. No one was going out to eat, visiting relatives, or traveling. Each day, the first thing I did was check how many new cases had been reported. There was nothing we could do but sit in our homes and wait.