It is always hard to get back from some time away — the email backlog, the pile of bills, the untended to-do list, and the inevitable aggravation from the home appliance that somehow no longer works, even though it was running smoothly before you left.

But heading home to Colorado last week from a family trip to Michigan was more than hard. Driving back during a pandemic, past a heartland destroyed by storms, toward a cloud of wildfire smoke, and into the final weeks of this dreadful election — it was downright crushing, to the point where I find it tougher to bounce out of bed, harder to force a smile, and wondering whether during a crazy time, I’m the one who’s gone insane.

I’m wondering, because this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’m told I should be bouncing up in the morning, uplifted by the Democratic convention and its promise of a new era soon — seventy-five days. But at least for me, watching the cable TV snippets, the convention speeches, and the celebratory Twitter dunks has left me with that feeling you get after eating junk food — full but not nourished; bloated, tired, and vaguely nauseous.