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A disclaimer: One of my least favorite places in the world is the so-called “feminine hygiene” aisle at my local drugstore. Under horrible fluorescent lights sits an array of largely unnecessary vaginal products, often packaged in the unnatural pink hue of Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape. Sure, some of them are legit, but seeing vaginal “cleansers” and “odor blockers” on the same shelves as tampons and Monistat causes a visceral reaction in me that’s only matched when I see a MAGA hat or hear the word “moist.”

But the latest of such products caught me especially off guard, because I wasn’t bracing for it the way I usually do the moment I enter my local pharmacy. Someone sent me a tweet featuring a product called Down There Wash, billed on the label as “a hoorah for your hoo-ha.” I rolled my eyes and responded, “More like a product to screw ya for your moolah, am I right?” I assumed that this was just another superfluous item I’d see around my most dreaded drugstore aisle. But the more I learned about this particular product, the more my light-hearted brush-off bubbled over into total contempt. Down There Wash wasn’t just your average vaginal health scam. It was wrong in so, so many ways.

In fact, so plentiful were my issues with the product that I decided to make a list of everything problematic about Down There Wash. Here goes… 

1) Its name.

I’ll start with the obvious. I used the term “down there” to describe my vagina when I was like, 10. You’re marketing to adults (I hope). Use anatomically correct terms, please. 

2) The appropriation of African American Vernacular English (AAVE). 

The bottle’s label is peppered with cutesy, slang-y, trying-too-hard phrases. It calls the vagina and/or vulva a “hoo ha,” a “bajingo,” and a “little V,” and says things like, “this ain’t your grandma’s douche!” Some of these terms aren’t just annoying — they’re troubling. As folks on Twitter pointed out, the bottle’s branding appears to be created by non-Black people using African American Vernacular English (AAVE) to get their message across. 

“The vagina (internal) is a magical self-cleaning machine, but the vulva (external) is a whole other thang,” Down There Wash’s blush pink bottle reads. The label continues, “The wrong thing can throw off her natural pH, which leads to dry, itchy skin, UTIs, yeast infections, odor, & more. Byeee felicia thank u, next! C U NEVER. [sic]”

This is branding clearly done by non Blacks trying to use AAVE* https://t.co/dSzPUvZhCz

— Stay in the car, we’re still going to revolution (@THEEBlackleftie) March 28, 2021

“This is not branding,” one person wrote on Twitter. “This is trying to advertise yourself in a culture you really don’t know anything about. “Thang” “bye felicia” and yet no other AAVE. Okay… this isn’t it. [sic]”

A spokesperson for Goodwipes, which makes Down There Wash, confirmed the language featured on the bottle that went viral on Twitter is up to date, but has not responded to Refinery29’s request for comment on their use of AAVE. 

“Our passion at Goodwipes is to make people feel GOOD, and the communication surrounding pH-balance on the back of the washes is meant to educate on this topic, while breaking through ‘taboo’ topics, empowering our consumers, and speaking to them like we would to our girlfriends,” Maria Guilbault, Goodwipes chief branding officer, told Refinery29 in an email. “We always aim to communicate in a relatable, authentic way that makes people feel more comfortable in situations in which they may have previously been unnecessarily wary… Life is too short not to keep it real and laugh about it all along the way! :)” 

🙁 

3) The gendering of a vaginal product.

This product inaccurately assumes that all vulvas — and people with them — use “she/her” pronouns. 

4) The vaginal fear-mongering.

As you read, the back of the bottle offers up a few vaginal health worst case scenarios, seemingly to terrify people into buying this product. There was a time in my life when I’d do, buy, or try anything to avoid even the idea of a urinary tract infection. Down There Wash’s language isn’t just over the top, but it could scare people into buying something they simply don’t need.

A vaginal or vulva pH wash or “cleanser” — whether you’re buying it from Goodwipes, Vee, HoneyPot or other brands selling something similar — isn’t necessary, explains Mary Jane Minkin, MD, OB/GYN at Yale University School of Medicine. “When it comes to the vagina, if you don’t have a problem, don’t create problem,” she says. Meaning if you’re not having any symptoms such as itchiness, burning, dryness, or odor, there’s no need to change up your vaginal health routine. If you do have an issue, bring it to your OB/GYN’s attention before your bring some mystery product into the shower with you. 

Does the vulva need to be washed? Sure, but you really don’t need a special product, notes Heather Bartos, MD, an OB/GYN in Texas. “Really, some warm water is all you have to have to clean your vulva,” she says, adding that if you have to use something, it should be doctor-tested, hypoallergenic, and fragrance-free: “Anything you use on the vulva can easily enter the super-sensitive vagina, so what’s in the product matters — like fragrance.” I zoomed in on the fine print so you don’t have to: Fragrance is listed as an ingredient in Down There Wash.

Also worth mentioning: When Refinery29 asked if the Goodwipes worked with an doctor to create their product, they cited a quote from the OB/GYN Sherry Ross, MD — but in a follow-up email confirmed they didn’t work directly with her. Instead, they said they specifically worked with a chemist and, more vaguely, “did copious amounts of research.” Okay!

In the end, Dr. Bartos put it best: “This product went a little overboard with its marketing strategy and somehow ended up — even in 2021 — making people feel shameful about their vulva… I cringed reading it.”

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Tanya Wildes, MD, is one of those doctors who was born, not made. She’s known that medicine was her calling since she was four years old, when she instinctively reset her sister’s dislocated finger (please don’t try it at home, she warns). And yet last August, after 12 years of practicing medicine, she decided to resign from her job as an oncologist in St. Louis, MO — and, at least for now, leave medicine altogether. 

Dr. Wildes, who requested her workplace not be named for fear of retaliation, remembers three specific events that led to her decision to leave the field she adored. The first occurred after a long day of working with patients. When she came home, her son wanted to fly his model airplane in the park. She said no. “I knew if it crashed into a tree or something, he’d be devastated and I just knew I couldn’t comfort him,” Dr. Wildes remembers. “I had nothing left to give.” 

The second event took place the following week, when Dr. Wildes went on a roadtrip with her family. She read books, played with her son, laughed, and even climbed a tree. “I didn’t cry that entire week,” she recalls. “Then I went back to work and cried every day. I’d struggled with seasons of depression before, and I know that depression doesn’t go on and off like a light switch. This was situational.” Not long after that, she was speaking with her older sister about her challenges, and floated the idea of quitting. “She’d championed me as a woman in medicine my entire life, but she immediately said, ‘Yes, that’s what you have to do,’” Dr. Wildes says. That conversation was event number three, she says: “It became absolutely clear. I needed to leave.” 

Dr. Wildes is just one member of what appears to be the beginning of a mass exodus of medical professionals from their field. About 40% of nurses considered leaving or planned to leave their job in the next six months, according to a 2021 American Nurses Foundation survey of 22,316 nurses. To compare, the turnover rate for bedside registered nurses in 2019 was just under 16%. Between March and June of last year, 8% of doctors closed their practices due to COVID-19, with 43% of physicians reducing their staff because of the pandemic, a June 2020 survey by The Physicians Foundation found. 

The stressors of the pandemic have taken their toll on pretty much every corner of society, but the strain has been particularly pernicious for medical professionals, who have faced a combination of uniquely frustrating, taxing, and even traumatic circumstances. Lynn Howie, MD, left her oncology job in a rural area in the South this January for a variety of reasons: a lack of PPE, untenable staff cuts that left her without support, and worries about spreading the virus to her family or catching it herself. Some doctors also shouldered significant financial burdens, since the pandemic had increased their overhead costs (due to stricter PPE requirements) while reducing their patient volumes (as many people began delaying non-essential care). 

Prior to March 2020, Dr. Wildes was already juggling her work with cancer patients, her research projects, and her family. “Before COVID-19, there was just enough bandwidth in our lives to deal with any extra issues that arose,” she says. “It meant that if someone got a flat tire, we could handle it. But a pandemic? No. That pushed everything from being at 93% capacity to being at 102% capacity all of the time.” She pushed through for as long as she could, but when the strain began taking her away from ability to spend time with her son and husband, she knew enough was enough.

Mental health concerns and burnout are major reasons droves of healthcare workers are leaving their field. More than half of doctors, nurses, and emergency responders working with COVID patients could be at risk for mental health conditions, including acute traumatic stress, depression, anxiety, substance abuse, and insomnia, according to a University of Utah Health study conducted in April and May 2020. ICU workers are especially at risk for meeting the threshold of post-traumatic stress disorder, research King’s College London released in January 2021 indicates.

“Everyone is dealing with the mental health impacts of the pandemic, but if you’re a healthcare worker, you have an extra burden of constantly being seen as a hero,” says Michi Fu, PhD, professor and licensed psychologist. “We feel like we have to be a little bit superhuman. In a field where you save others, there’s much higher risk of burnout than other professions already, and now there’s more vicarious traumatization of seeing what others are going through with COVID-19, sometimes being the last one to pass a message along from a loved one.” 

And the mental load is even heavier for healthcare workers who are people of color, Dr. Fu adds. They have seen firsthand how Black, Latinx, and Indigenous patients die of the virus at higher rates. Additionally, many Asian American doctors have experienced more racism during the pandemic, amid a backdrop of increased violence targeting Asian people. Many point to former President Donald Trump’s comments referring to COVID-19 as the “China virus” as a catalyst that encouraged anti-Asian sentiments and hate. 

Lucy Li, MD, an anesthesiology resident at Massachusetts General Hospital, says that after a shift in March, a man began following her, yelling profanities. He shouted, “Why are you Chinese people killing everyone? Why the f— are you killing us?” Dr. Li was terrified. “Even though I knew the hate was out there, I was shocked still when it happened to me directly,” she says. She was also offended: She was risking her health every day to save lives, not harm them.

Pre-pandemic, Dr. Li already had mental health support, including a therapist, which she says made all the difference in her ability to move past the incident and continue doing her job. She praises her hospital for setting up support systems for residents. Her director even helped create a national program called Emotional PPE, which connects medical professionals with free mental health services. 

But not all healthcare workers can access this type of support, in part due to a pervasive stigma around mental illness among medical professionals. Research presented at the American Psychiatric Association’s annual meeting showed that the suicide rate among physicians is more than double that of the general population, and yet other studies have shown that few seek out mental health care. Approximately 50% of physicians have experienced inappropriate anger, tearfulness, or anxiety as a result of COVID-19’s impact, yet only 13% of physicians have sought medical attention for a mental health problem caused by COVID-19, according to The Physicians Foundation’s September 2020 survey. 

Medical professionals often cite fear of retaliation for seeking support; they could be concerned that asking for help could interfere with their licensing, according to a 2017 study in Mayo Clinic Proceedings. Others feel they don’t have the time or bandwidth to seek help, due to their demanding workloads, Dr. Li adds. These and other barriers can lead to burnout, more folks leaving medicine — and even more dire consequences. 

Lorna Breen, MD, died by suicide in April 2020. She was a sister, a “cool aunt” to her eight nieces and nephews, and an emergency room director at New York Presbyterian Allen Hospital in Manhattan. 

“She was always helping people, and jumped into action whenever she could,” Corey Feist, Dr. Breen’s brother-in-law, tells Refinery29. He recalls a time a cab he was sharing with Dr. Breen bumped into a cyclist’s tire. The driver got out to assess the damage, and the cyclist punched him square in the face. “Lorna immediately flipped into, ‘I’m an ER doctor, and I’m going to take care of everyone,’” remembers Feist, who is chief executive officer of the University of Virginia Physicians Group. This attitude was typical for her. Even when she contracted COVID-19 last spring, after weeks of working on the front lines of the pandemic, she made PPE care packages to send to her coworkers while she was home sick, Feist says. She returned to the emergency room and worked 12-hour shifts, often staying late to help out at a time when supplies were scarce and hospitals in New York were overwhelmed. 

On April 9, 2020, though, she called her sister, Jennifer Breen Feist, and said she couldn’t get out of her chair. She hadn’t slept in a week and was overworked, Dr. Breen’s family noted. Although she’d had no prior mental health problems, she was struggling now — but she was afraid to seek help. 

A few weeks later, she died by suicide. Suicide is always complex and multifactorial, but physician suicide is all too common, says Gary Price, MD, president of the Physicians Foundation. “A little more than one physician per day dies by suicide — 400 doctors a year,” he says. “That means so many more patients lose their doctor. This is not something we can accept as the status quo.”

“Our New York-Presbyterian and Columbia family continues to mourn the passing of Dr. Lorna Breen,” said a spokesperson for NewYork-Presbyterian and Columbia University Irving Medical Center. “Dr. Breen was a heroic, remarkably skilled, compassionate, and dedicated clinical leader who cared deeply for her patients and colleagues.

“Throughout the COVID crisis, our hospitals have faced unprecedented challenges, and our doctors, nurses, and other frontline healthcare workers have answered these challenges in heroic ways,” the statement continues. “We have worked to give them the support and resources they need to fight for every life while protecting their own health and safety.” 

After Dr. Breen’s story was published in The New York Times, Corey Feist says that their family received an onslaught of messages from physicians saying they had similar fears around asking for mental health support.

The family founded the Dr. Lorna Breen Heroes’ Foundation and, along with Sen. Tim Kaine of Virginia, is working to pass federal legislation to prevent and treat burnout and mental health conditions among healthcare professionals. The bill was just approved for funding, and has bipartisan support. 

“I can’t underscore enough that there’s a huge gap in understanding across the healthcare industry of the strategies that’ll work to improve mental health among healthcare professionals,” adds Corey Feist. “And the healthcare industry needs to act now to support the well-being of their workforce or we’re at risk of losing a large segment of our caregivers.”

 In order to effectively treat this problem, hospitals, licensing boards, and healthcare institutions across the country and globe will need to come together, says Neil Greenberg, MD FRCPsych, a professor who researches mental health in military and healthcare settings at King’s College London. He suggests training managers to better identify the warning signs of mental health issues and to feel confident speaking with staff about their wellbeing. 

Setting up peer support groups can also be beneficial. “Nurses have been through probably the worst year of their careers — they’ve had such pressure and trauma and relentless work,” says Jill Maben, OBE, PhD, RN, a professor of health services research and nursing who has been studying nurses’ wellbeing for 20 years. “But what seems to help nurses most is talking to each other.” During the pandemic, it’s been difficult to have casual get-togethers, however. Formal peer groups, like those provided in the Schwartz Rounds program (available in parts of the U.S. and other countries) give healthcare workers a regularly scheduled time to get together and talk to the emotional, social, and ethical issues that take place at work in a supportive way that can be cathartic. 

“It needs to be okay to say, ‘I’ve made these decisions and I’m not sure I’ve got it right,’” Dr. Greenberg says. “Everybody has been in the same storm, maybe not the same boat. There have been no right answers over the last year. The story can’t be, ‘It’s all my fault’ or ‘It’s all my bosses’ fault,’ but that we’re all in this terrible storm together.” 

Without meaningful dialogue, the right resources, and manager support, the mental health of medical professionals will continue to suffer and they will continue to leave the field. When that happens, “it inevitably impacts patients,” Dr. Price says. “They lose access to healthcare. There’s going to be a growing problem of physician shortage over the next 10 years. This is felt mostly in rural areas where the doctor who leaves may be the only doctor around.” 

When it comes to quitting jobs, everyone has to make the decision that’s right for them and their mental health. But Dr. Greenberg suggests that medical professionals who are thinking of leaving their field consider seeking treatment first: Speak to your manager if you can, look into a program like Emotional PPE, or talk to a friend or family member you trust. “We know that many healthcare staff have expressed an intention to leave the profession, and it is likely that many of those intentions are linked to poor mental health,” Dr. Greenberg says. “People think if they leave, things will automatically get better. But that’s often not the case.” 

Dr. Wildes, however, says she’s confident that leaving her job was the right call for her. “Leaving was a decision I made in great mental wellness, as a protective strategy for my mental health,” she says. “If I had continued to persist, I think it could have caused depression or led me towards burnout. I’m grateful I had the privilege to be able to leave.” 

She plans to go back into medicine in some capacity at some point in the next year or two, but in the meantime she is enjoying spending extra time with her son. “My biggest fear when I was working was that when my son was 80 he’d tell his grandkids about the pandemic and his memory would be, ‘My mom was really a mess,’” she reflects. “But on New Year’s Eve, I asked him what he would say if he could go back to the beginning of 2020 and warn himself about what was ahead,” Dr. Wildes says. “He looked at me quizzically and said, ‘It wasn’t that bad a year.’ And for me, that was enough.” 

If you are thinking about suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or the Suicide Crisis Line at 1-800-784-2433.

If you are experiencing depression and need support, please call the National Depressive/Manic-Depressive Association Hotline at 1-800-826-3632 or the Crisis Call Center’s 24-hour hotline at 1-775-784-8090.

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My chaotic energy knows no bounds, and thus I rarely check the Weather app. Usually, I find out it’s raining in real time, or if someone tells me to expect showers during small talk. I suspect that most functioning adults peek at their weather app of choice sometime between waking up and leaving their house in the morning, if only to determine whether they should grab an umbrella on their way out the door. And while it would seem that being informed is the more responsible choice, as it turns out, many people completely misinterpret one of the most widely read weather stats: how likely it is to rain. Take that, “functioning” adults! 

I first caught wind of the actual meaning of the Percentage of Precipitation (PoP), as it’s known in meteorological circles, on TikTok. A video went around that claimed that a 30% chance of rain doesn’t mean that there’s a… 30% chance that it might rain that day. Instead, it means there’s a 100% chance it will rain, but said precipitation will only cover 30% of a given area. Cue the pandemonium. Who would have assumed that was the correct interpretation? People felt lied to. But for every viewer expressing dismay, another expressed skepticism. How could we be sure this random TikToker had it right? (Spoiler: They didn’t.) 

The TikToker — who didn’t respond to Refinery29’s request for comment by press time — was incorrect, but the truth is, PoP is tricky to define. I asked Castle Williams, PhD, a social science contractor supporting National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Research’s Weather Program Office, to explain PoP to me as though I was a precocious fourth grader. He said that would be “a really difficult ask.”

@sydjkell

Reply to @spice.hound The original ##ChanceofRain video w added ##closedcaption for ##deaf and ##HoH viewers!! ♥️ (And those who scroll TT w sound off😂)

♬ original sound – Syd

Dr. Williams wasn’t trying to insult my intelligence. In a study he conducted with the University of Georgia, he found that meteorologists don’t agree on how the percentage is calculated. In fact, there are five different commonly used definitions for PoP among meteorologists alone. No wonder the average weather app user is confused. 

One of the five definitions in Dr. Williams’ study is similar to the reasoning behind the TikTok: It’s based off of the idea that PoP = C x A. In that case, “C” means the confidence that it’ll rain somewhere in the forecast area. And “A” means the percent of the area that will receive a measurable amount of rain, if it occurs at all. So a 50% chance of rain in 80% of a given area = a 40% PoP. But Dr. Williams says this isn’t the most widely accepted definition among meteorologists.

His preferred definition is this: “[PoP measures] the likelihood that you’ll see rain at any given point within the forecast area within a 12 hour time period,” he tells me. His interpretation is more in line with the common understanding of PoP — not the TikTok. 

Mindy Beerends, Meteorologist-in-Charge at the National Weather Service Center Weather Service Unit in Indiana, has a more technical definition: “It’s the chance of precipitation, which we define as 100th of an inch of rain falling at a particular point over a certain period of time,” she says. Beerends’ explanation falls in line with the official NOAA definition of PoP, and both also seem to debunk the viral TikTok.  

While the video that’s been circulating recently is new, its so-called revelation isn’t. My research turned up similar “I was today years old when I learned…”-style factoids on social media and mentions of PoP misinterpretations in old articles stretching back to the early 2000s. Some, like the TikTok, claim that a 30% chance of rain refers to the proportion of a given area that will receive rain. But another misreading is that the PoP actually means you’ll be seeing rain for 30% of the time in a given forecast area over a certain period. Both are wrong. Apologies in advance if I just shattered your world view… 

A lot of PoP miscommunications happen because meteorologists and apps give us the percentage without a “reference class.” That’s when you provide context: “A percentage in a PoP forecast is most useful when the percentage is accompanied by a point of comparison that anchors the intended meaning of the forecast,” he says. “For example, if I say there’s a 20% chance of precipitation for your area tomorrow in the afternoon or evening, it’s unclear what that 20% is referring to. By adding a reference class, such as, on one in five days like today, there will be rain in your area, it provides context and anchors the probability information.”

But the thing is, even if you personally interpret PoP incorrectly, Dr. Williams says that if it’s working for you, it’s no big deal. One of the reasons there’s not a major push to help people understand PoP (or to get all meteorologists on the same page) is because there aren’t major negative consequences to misinterpreting whether it’ll rain. “The worst that happens is you don’t bring your umbrella or raincoat,” he says. “We have more dangerous hazards that are taking the stage.” In other words, meteorologists, by and large, are more focused on tracking tornadoes, hurricanes, and storms that threaten people’s lives. And most people are getting along fine even when they misunderstand PoP.

“Even though people aren’t understanding or can’t define what the PoP means, they’re using the percentage correctly when they take protective action,” Dr. Williams says. If you see there’s 80% chance of rain, you’ll probably dress appropriately, even if you think the 80% is referring to how much land will receive rain, or how long the rain will last. 

“We all have our own internal definition of what PoP means, and we’ve been using it for as long as we’ve been using weather forecasts,” Dr. Williams says. “We’ve all personalized PoP and we all have our own threshold and our own gauges of when to take an umbrella and when not to.” Basically, we don’t question our understanding of PoP because it’s been working for us. That is, until someone on TikTok comes along and rains on our PoP parade. 

Still, both Dr. Williams and Beerends say they’d like to see more be done to educate folks about PoP, whether it means an asterisk within the weather app with information going into detail about the stat and how it was calculated, or learning about it in more detail in schools. “It’s something we should be doing some more public education around,” Beerends says. “It’s important to have people be aware of what that percentage means, so it can help them make informed decisions so they can be safe and prepared” 

I asked Dr. Williams why he thought that this PoP conversation was becoming so popular now. Could it be a reaction to all the uncertainty we’ve faced amid the COVID-19 pandemic? Are we desperate to know the certain truth about something, even if it’s just our understanding of the weather? He said it was a good hypothesis. “In the last year, uncertainty has been heightened and we’ve become ‘uncertainty fatigued,’” Dr. Williams says. 

Regardless, if your interpretation of PoP has been working for you — meaning you almost always have an umbrella or raincoat on hand when it begins to rain — there’s no need to readjust your perception. But if the whole mysterious mess is infuriating to you, take a page from my book and ditch the tyranny of the weather app altogether. Dancing in the rain is more fun than coming prepared anyway. 

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I was in bed drinking ginger tea and watching my 64 billionth TikTok video when I began to notice a trend. There was a lot of running mascara. And a lot of clips were set to the song “Driver’s License” by Olivia Rodrigo. Before my eyes, strangers were dissecting their failed relationships — sometimes just hours after they fell apart. They said to themselves: “Baby girl, it’s time to let go.” I had stumbled upon #BreakupTikTok, and I was fascinated. 

If you search the hashtag #Breakup or #BreakupTikTok, you’ll find an array of juicy and heart-wrenching content. Some take to the platform to share how they got over their heartbreaks. Others create montages of photos of their ex, with pointers for the next person who dates them. (Tips range from “he will love you unconditionally, so please do the same” to “order him a Dr. Pepper, no ice.”) A surprising number of people just film themselves crying on camera, wiping away their tears while a classic breakup song like Sam Smith’s “Stay With Me” plays in the background. In the most gutting Toks, you’ll see someone actually get broken up with on camera. 

As I watched, a part of me was impressed with how frank these people were. Some of them reminded me a little of myself when I was going through my worst breakup. But the other part of me was skeptical — and a little concerned. Were they just trying to get attention? Wouldn’t the creators regret being so candid about their heartbreak?  

The Breakup TikTokers I spoke to were remarkably forthcoming about the reasons behind their content  — and the good and bad of going viral for showing their broken hearts off to the world. Amber Anderson, for instance, made a video seven days after calling it quits with her fiancé, whom she’d been seeing for two-and-a-half years. It was a fairly impulsive decision, she says: One morning she was getting ready for the day and putting on makeup, when she looked in the mirror and broke down in tears. Then, she started filming. “Just because somebody appears out of nowhere and you guys fall hopelessly in love, it doesn’t make you soul mates,” the 20-year-old says in the video, taking a moment to blink away her tears. “It just means that you met at a time when your souls needed each other the most.” 

@amberlucyy_

Day 7: soulmates #heartbroken #breakuptiktok #healing #breakupdiary #adviceforgirls

♬ Repeat Until Death – Novo Amor

Anderson is from the UK and, between her accent and wavy red hair, has a real Kate Winslet vibe. She didn’t think too many people would see the video, she tells me over Zoom. It’s 14 days after she posted the video and just 21 days after her breakup, but she looks much happier now than she did on TikTok. “I made it to help myself, hoping I could look back at it in a month and see how far I’d come — how much I’d grown,” she says. “I didn’t think it would blow up. I only had a couple thousand followers at that point, and now over 300,000 people have seen me cry.” More, actually: As of press time, it had received more than a million views and nearly 350,000 likes.

Tess Mueske also didn’t expect one of her toughest times to go viral. The 24-year-old separated from her partner in October. Her three roommates were also going through breakups at the time. In a video, one of her roommates pokes fun at the situation, standing in front of a screenshot of a group text with her broken-hearted friends, and reads off the messages: “So what stage of grief is everybody in?” After that TikTok took off — more than two million people have watched it — Mueske began posting her own videos, asking for advice and processing her feelings. “I feel like I’m still thinking about her a lot,” she admitted in one video. 

Mueske was motivated to share, in part, by a desire to see more non-curated content on TikTok. “I think we see a lot of highlight reels,” she tells Refinery29. “People talk about breakup glow-ups or ‘Oh I learned all these amazing things about myself.’ But we also need to hear from people saying, ‘This sucks and I wish it hadn’t happened.’ I don’t want to only share the perfect parts of my life on the internet, because that’s not who I am as a person.” But she also mentioned feeling isolated: She’d recently moved and didn’t have many local friends. Those she had were difficult to see in real life due to the pandemic. On TikTok, she felt heard.

“It’s a deeply human thing to want to share our experiences, whether in therapy, via written word, or on TikTok,” says Anthony T. Pinter, a PhD Candidate at the University of Colorado Boulder who led a study about social media and breakups.

The urge to share isn’t all bad. “It’s healthy to get your emotions out of your body, and documenting your healing process can be helpful,” adds Moraya Seeger DeGeare, LMFT, co-owner of BFF Therapy and an anti-racism business consultant. But it’s healthier to share with people you trust — a therapist, a friend — than with your social media followers, she says. “Clicks and views are different from real-life support from someone who knows you, who can console you, and who can tell you hard truths,” DeGeare says. 

There are consequences to sharing intimate moments online. “The internet doesn’t forget,” Pinter notes. And because it’s so easy to download videos from TikTok, and the platform encourages people to stitch videos together and borrow sounds, the technological lifespan of your tears could theoretically go on forever. The videos could impede your healing process. “What happens if you become a meme and you can’t escape your own breakup anymore?” Pinter asks. 

Anderson and Mueske are still in fairly early stages of their breakup process, but they both say the popularity of their respective videos has been a little anxiety-provoking — if hard to wrap their minds around. “At first, when I thought about how many people had seen it, my heart would start beating really fast,” Anderson says. “But I would still tell people who are thinking of doing this to just put it out there. It helped me grow… When I look back at it and see how sorry for myself I was feeling, I feel that I’ve come so far.” 

Privacy is also an issue — for creators and their exes, Pinter says. “People aren’t afraid of conducting what you might call ‘crowd justice’ when they see these sorts of things and they feel like someone has been wronged,” Pinter says. “So that’s definitely an important thing to consider if you are thinking about sharing your story on TikTok or through other public means…The public might decide to take matters into their own hands.” 

Then there’s the fact that your ex might see your video. For some, that’s not a problem. “I hope he’s seen it,” Anderson says. “I would like him to know how upset I was, and I want to keep posting about me getting better. That I’m doing okay.” On the flip side, Mueske was shocked when her ex liked one of her videos after they’d broken up. “She was always adamant that she wasn’t going to download the app, and, when she did, it felt like she was reading my diary,” Mueske reflects. “It was the one place I felt like I could talk openly about the breakup online.” 

After her ex got on TikTok, Mueske deleted some of her breakup videos. “I don’t want to paint her in a negative light, as much as she hurt me,” she says.

On some level, I get where Mueske and Anderson are coming from. In 2015, I was 20, listening to Taylor Swift’s “Red” album a lot, and going through a doozy of a breakup. I felt the impulse to write a horrifically candid journal entry about not being able to move on. I’d trusted someone and they broke my heart — so I let that baby bleed all over the page. “I didn’t get butterflies in my stomach when he came into a room,” I wrote. “There was something more powerful and reckless and wild and beautiful down there. Was there a bald eagle in my stomach?” Embarrassing. But I was incredibly sad, and I couldn’t hold that emotion on my own any longer. Instead of calling up my besties who were, at that point, sick of hearing me dwell, I submitted what was basically an unedited page from my diary to the teen online magazine Thought Catalog. Not long after, they posted it. At first I felt validated. Then I felt mortified. I both hoped my ex would read it, and dreaded the idea. Eventually, I just didn’t care anymore. 

I went back and read the story after talking to Anderson and Mueske, and saw some of the same emotions in my story that they’d talked about feeling. At the time, I wanted to be seen, and to know that I wasn’t alone. More than anything, I wanted to get my thoughts out of my brain, where they were circulating unhealthily. Now, I can barely get through a paragraph of the story without laughing at how devastatingly open I’d been (and sighing at the awful writing). I find the post cringey, but I don’t regret submitting it — possibly because, to my knowledge, no one I know read it. And because it gave me some peace at the time. 

Both Anderson and Mueske say a positive consequence of posting their breakup TikToks has been the community they’ve found as a result.

Mueske has taken advice commenters have left, such as to pick up a new hobby to take her mind off of the split. She’s started recording songs she sings and writes at home in quarantine. “I threw myself into a piece of my identity that wasn’t wrapped up in her, and it was freeing,” Mueske says. 

Anderson says hundreds of people have reached out to her on Instagram in the days since she posted the video. While she acknowledges there can be a dark side to seeking support online, she’s mostly made friends with people going through something similar. She’s even doing a virtual Galentine’s Day celebration with them. 

“You do some really dumb stuff when you’re really sad, but this helped with my loneliness, and it kick-started a lot of stuff for me. I’m not even crying any more. And this is so strange, but I ultimately feel proud of myself,” Anderson says. “In the past, I’ve hidden away, and that didn’t help me heal. But this did, and now I’ve got new people to reach out to who are going through something big too — who I can reach out to without judgement or opinion.”

Anderson’s post-Tok experience is a best case scenario. There are plenty of ways posting about lost love could go sour, as Pinter pointed out. But if you do decided to post and, like me, cringe about it later, take solace knowing you’re not the first person to overshare about matters of the heart on social media. And you certainly won’t be the last.

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There’s an especially juicy episode of Sex and the City in which Charlotte gets really into her rabbit vibrator — so much so that she starts ditching plans with her friends to stay home with it. Eventually, Carrie and Miranda feel compelled to step in and conduct what they call a “rabbit intervention.” And now, much like the iconic besties, Mozilla is here to give us our own sex toy intervention. This one, though, is all about privacy. 

This week, the nonprofit behind the Firefox browser has released the Valentine’s Day edition of its *Privacy Not Included guide, in which they reviewed the privacy policies of 26 sex toys and 24 dating apps using their own criteria. The findings: Half of the sex toys and 87% of the dating apps they reviewed had policies that left user information vulnerable to privacy or security breaches, the guide claims.

The risks involved with using less-than-secure sex toys or dating apps are wide-ranging. The companies themselves may share your data with marketing companies, which will then send you targeted ads, says Jen Caltrider, the lead and researcher on the project. Other lapses in their security and privacy systems can have more sinister results. Hackers could access your personal information to steal your identity, or even find your location and potentially harm you. They could also gain control of certain sex toys from a distance, which is a form of sexual assault.

For instance, the guide calls out the Qiui Cellmate, a “connected” chastity cage intended to be locked around one’s penis. The Qiui device lets one user operate its lock from anywhere in the world using a digital key. But internet security researchers found multiple vulnerabilities that makes the device easy to hack. A random person with enough tech know-how could lock a user into the cage, preventing the owners from unlocking it. In fact, this has happened at least once before. “Having a vulnerability in your vibrator is worrying but having a vulnerability in a chastity cage is dangerous,” Caltrider says.  

Qiui didn’t respond to Refinery29’s request for comment, but in a BBC story about the Cellmate’s hackability last year, the company noted that, if digitally locked by a hacker, the product could still be cracked open manually with a screwdriver (though it doesn’t sound like much fun, considering the precarious position of the device). Affected customers could also call a hotline to be released.

The risk to users doesn’t end there. “Although a lot of the headlines around the Qiui Cellmate focused, perhaps understandably, around the involuntary locked-in aspect, our concern was more the ability to access people’s private messages, photos, phone numbers, passwords, and exact location,” notes Alex Lomas, a security researcher at Pen Test Partners, a security firm that initially exposed the vulnerabilities of the Cellmate in a YouTube Video. 

This sort of breach was also a concern with the dating apps Mozilla reviewed. The apps collect so much sensitive personal information, from your political party, to drug use, to your HIV status, Caltrider says. If this information isn’t protected, it can be catastrophic. The Ashley Madison hack, for instance, ruined lives. “If you’re gay, lesbian, or transgender, depending on where you live, it can be very dangerous to have your information put out into the world,” Caltrider adds. 

Many of the larger sex toy companies — OhMiBod, Lovense — are doing a fair job of protecting your privacy, Mozilla’s guide shows. If they do have a privacy issue, they usually work to fix it once it’s brought to their attention, Caltrider says. 

Mozilla credited WeVibe, for instance, for cleaning up its privacy policy in 2016 after a class action lawsuit called them out for collecting user data without consent. In a statement to Refinery29, WeVibe stated: “While it is true that we settled a U.S. class action suit in 2016, we want to emphasize that no customer data has been hacked or compromised, and no one’s individual app use was monitored.” They note their data is protected by encryption, and that they never “sought to track people’s sex lives.”

Brad Haines, the creator of the sex toy security and advocacy platform Internet of Dongs, who goes by RenderMan, has been critical of Mozilla’s *Privacy Not Included guide, especially about the fact that they reach their conclusions by examining the companies’ privacy policies, not by purchasing and using the toys and apps themselves. He also believes that some of the information in this guide might seem scarier than it actually is, and that Mozilla should provide more context around issues like location sharing. The nonprofit reports that all the sex toys they reviewed track users’ locations. Seems shady? In many phones, location permission is necessary to connect to Bluetooth, RenderMan says. “Very few apps I’ve run across ever actually query the user location, and those that do, are pretty obvious about it,” he notes. 

Despite his criticisms, RenderMan says it’s nice to see organizations generally highlight privacy and security. In addition to taking a critical look at the privacy policies of the apps and connected devices we use, Caltrider and other experts say anyone who decides to use a connected device or an app (because you can always opt out entirely) should also follow a few strategies to keep their data as safe as possible. 

Rename Bluetooth devices 

Say you have a vibrator that’s controlled by an app via Bluetooth. Name it something innocuous, such as “toothbrush,” rather than “vibrator” or the toy’s actual name (“MysteryVibe Crescendo”), Caltrider suggests. Sex-related devices could be easy targets for any neighborhood hackers, who might spot the name and decide to try to connect to and control your toy. 

Use a fake email address

When connecting to a vibrator that has an app, use an alternate email that doesn’t include your full name, Lomas advises. If the company has a data breach, this may help conceal your identity. Hopefully it goes without saying, but definitely don’t use a company email address. “Back when Ashley Madison was breached, many U.S. government and military email addresses were disclosed,” Lomas says. 

Don’t give away your exact location 

iPhone iOS 14 allows users to activate a ‘approximate location’ feature, to keep your home or work address more secure, Lomas says. To adjust this by app on your iPhone, go to Settings -> Privacy -> Location Services, then tap on specific  apps; you’ll be able to  toggle a button for “precise location” off. For Androids, you can choose to share your location with an app all the time, never, or only when using it — but there doesn’t seem to be a way to choose between “precise” and “approximate” location sharing. 

Avoid linking apps to Facebook 

Don’t link your Facebook page and your dating app; use a phone number instead. “This is my number one recommendation,” says Caltrider. “Dating apps and Facebook have the worst track records with protecting user’s data…. Almost every dating app in our guide has had some major data breach in the past 10 years that’s given up millions of people’s information. Facebook has done the same.” When you link the two, there’s a possibility that the dating app is pulling information from Facebook and vice versa. 

Be selective about the information you give away

Caltrider doesn’t recommend disclosing drug use or other illegal activities to apps, even if they ask (which some dating apps do). You can always bring up that sort of info in person, once you’ve made a match.

Look for a privacy policy 

You don’t have to do as much research as Mozilla did, but if you’re thinking of buying a sex toy or joining a new app, at least make sure that they have a privacy policy. Not every company does, Caltrider says, adding,  “And if it’s really hard to find the privacy policy, that’s a red flag too.” 

Get back the data you can 

You can contact companies — including Facebook — to ask them to “return” your data, or delete it from their sites. (Caltrider says many companies and Facebook especially may not delete all of it, but some is better than nothing.) The Washington Post has a great guide on invoking your right to ask some large companies such as DoorDash, Facebook, and Uber to delete your data. 

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The last 12 months have been a hard time to be a mental health professional, but for Black and brown therapists and psychologists, it has been particularly difficult. “People would say, ‘Three people died at my work today,’ or ‘Hey, my mom just passed,’’’ remembers therapist Moraya Seeger DeGeare, co-owner of BFF Therapy. “Everyone was really stressed, and I began feeling everyone’s stress. 

“A few weeks in, my mom tested positive for COVID. She recovered, but it was scary,” she says. “Then George Floyd gets murdered… I came out of my office multiple days and felt like, fuck the world.” 

Between the beginning of the pandemic and fall 2020, 74% of psychologists who work with patients for anxiety disorders saw an uptick in demand for treatment, according to a survey from the American Psychological Association. Teletherapy platform Talkspace reported a 65% jump in clients between mid-February and May of last year, mostly due to pandemic-related anxiety, a spokesperson told Refinery29. 

The isolation caused by lockdowns, the fear of getting sick, the grief that came with losing loved ones or jobs all contributed to the ongoing mental health crisis. The burden placed on Black Americans was exceptionally high. The virus infected and killed Black Americans at disproportionate rates. George Floyd’s and Breonna Taylor’s killings at the hands of police sparked worldwide protests against police brutality and systemic racism in the U.S. Soon after the news of their deaths began getting widespread attention, reported symptoms of  depression and anxiety rose more among Black Americans than any other group, according to data from the Census Bureau’s Household Pulse survey.

“Because I’m a Black female therapist, in 2020, there was a lot of outreach from people in the Black community needing support,” Fanny Tristan, a clinical social worker, tells Refinery29. “Many of us were going through the same crises together.” 

On the one hand, the shared experiences fostered empathy. But it could also be difficult to balance supporting clients with taking care of themselves. “When George Floyd died, I went on Instagram and asked everyone: ‘How are you?’” says psychologist Alfiee Breland-Noble, PhD. “People need to hear that, but are often afraid of the question — they’re afraid of falling apart when asked. But I thought, I want someone to ask me how I’m doing right now.”

Here, five Black mental health professionals share the self-care practices and advice they found themselves leaning on to get through the last year — and open up about their hopes for 2021.

Alfiee Breland-Noble, PhD 
Psychologist and founder of the mental health nonprofit, the AAKOMA Project
Arlington, VA 

How I took care of myself in 2020: “Living through 2020 has made me more grateful. There are so many small things I’m working not to take for granted. I’m thankful to have technology and social media as a way to connect with others.”

The advice I found myself repeating last year: “I’ve been working hard to remind people to not be hard on themselves. Breathe. Drop your shoulders. Don’t isolate yourself, and don’t be too proud to ask for help. I’m always telling people: ‘You’re valuable because you exist.’ I want to celebrate the fact that you’re here.”

My hope for 2021: “2020 was the first time in my life that I could honestly say that people came around to some tiny level of greater acknowledgement of the unique stressors of Black people. Watching white people in the streets with signs and protesting with people of color this year? Wow. That was powerful. I will say, over the past [few] months, I started to see the conversation drift a little bit to how it was before George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. However, I’m optimistic — even though there’s a tiny piece of me that worries we’re going to backslide.” 

Moraya Seeger DeGeare, MA, LMFT
Co-owner of BFF Therapy, anti-racism business consultant 
Beacon, NY 

How I took care of myself in 2020: “I was trying to stay off social media. I didn’t want to turn away from the news, but I was hearing so much about the trauma happening in the world from my clients themselves every day — I didn’t need to see it repeated in one post after another. I also consult with other therapists to talk about cases, and those meetings were so important. I had to prioritize taking walks in the morning, and taking naps if I could. I’d take some of my calls outside in the garden. I’d meditate, use an essential oil diffuser. I’d journal every morning.”

“Sometimes, though, [early last summer] I wanted to scream into nature. It was the combination of: I’m super pregnant, and I have another small person running around so I’m actively parenting — personally, I have a Black son and am mixed race — while working… But I never got to the point of burnout, because I have a wonderful partner and group of friends as a support system.”

The advice I found myself repeating last year: “My own activism overlaps with my work with clients in a big way. During the election, I told my clients to allow themselves to have feelings but also to be an activist. I’d ask them to focus on what was within their control, meaning texting friends about voting, applying to be a poll worker, putting signs in the yard.” 

My hope for 2021: “The recent domestic terrorism on the Capitol is again forcing folks to confront the idea of white privilege. Because of this, more couples who may not agree on politics and racism are having much deeper talks. It’s been wonderful to facilitate hard conversations, because that’s how change begins… Anti-racism work needs to start as a personal journey for every single one of us — but what really gets that journey started can be a comment from or a conversation with someone whose opinion you trust and value.”

JaNaè Taylor, PhD 
Psychotherapist and founder of Minding My Black Business
​Virginia Beach, VA

How I took care of myself in 2020: “I did this in two big ways. One was giving myself permission to rest, and the second was creating stricter boundaries for myself. I have a relaxation zone in my home, and I have a specific spot where I do my sessions. This has been helpful since March, [when] I made the pivot to telehealth.”

The advice I found myself repeating last year: “There is a double consciousness that occurs when you’re living in a marginalized body. You walk around and it’s not safe. You’re very on guard, but at the same time you still have to do your daily tasks. We pull upon some strength, whether that comes from being spiritual or leaning on your community. A week after the insurrection, for instance, my clients were back to focusing on their goals. Somehow you’re able to recalibrate. [So] I’ve talked to my clients a lot about the idea of making themselves a priority. It’s okay to say, ‘I need to go take a 30 minute bath or take a walk.’ We’ve all been operating in such an emergent state, and you need to pull back and say, ‘I need to fulfill my basic needs.’”

My hope for 2021: “In the coming year, I hope that everybody gets to have some connection with a mental health professional. It doesn’t have to mean paying for therapy. It could mean attending a Zoom workshop, reading a book, or listening to a podcast. And for the Black therapists, who are both the helper and the one needing help? I hope that we’re doing what we need to do to make sure we can continue to find strength, turn toward each other, and be of service to others.” 

Fanny Tristan, LCSW-R
Owner and founder of Restority
New York, NY

How I took care of myself in 2020: “I have my own therapist, and last year I really found joy in cooking. I learned to make a great cheesecake. I go on early morning walks with my baby in her stroller and listen to podcasts like The Daily, Death, Sex, and Money, and Still Processing.”

The advice I found myself repeating last year: “When big events like the death of George Floyd happen, it brings a lot up for people. That’s a testament to how trauma works: We do a great job of compartmentalizing, but when something triggering happens, all these things come flooding back. [I tell my clients], we’re human. We’re allowed to have emotions and feelings, and when we’ve gotten it out of our system, it’s good to look around and figure out what you can control and what you can’t. Ask yourself: What do I have? I’m lucky to have a partner to help me take care of my baby, and a job that lets me pay the bills. I know that’s not a given anymore. And I’m thankful I have the skills to support my community during this insane time.”

What I hope carries into 2021: “The year didn’t start out as many hoped; the events at the Capitol are just a reminder that we have so much work to do. As a mental health provider, I will continue holding a safe space for people who continue to navigate living in this country in the skin they are in.” 

Candice Nicole Hargons, PhD 
Director of the Center for Healing Racial Trauma and assistant professor at the University of Kentucky
Lexington, KY 

How I took care of myself in 2020: “I wrote poetry, and I used the time to connect with loved ones more intentionally, including daily walks with my husband and son and calling my friends and family more. I’m still grieving 2020 in very similar ways to my clients. I feel the sadness, the exhaustion at a bone-deep level. Having a lot of love and a solid care practice sustains me.” 

The advice I found myself repeating last year: “After video surfaced of George Floyd’s killing, many of my clients were heart-broken, sad, angry, and exhausted. But they were also motivated to enact change. I see my role as being the one to help them stay committed to the work of dismantling racist systems by being a healer. I find myself saying: ‘You are worthy of self-compassion no matter what, but especially since we’re living in a global pandemic.’”

My hope for 2021: “[Even after the storming of the Capitol] I maintain the radical hope that people who are committed to intersectional anti-oppression work will not be deterred by terrorism. Working with clients who are committed to uplifting the community maintains my hope. The number of requests I’ve received for training and consulting from companies who want to invest in anti-racism beyond a superficial talk maintains my hope. As a Spelman [College] woman, I’m looking at [fellow alumni] Stacey Abrams and her work as inspiration. She represents an undaunted spirit that 2021 requires, so I’m “about that life”. 

These interviews have been condensed for length and clarity. 

If you are experiencing anxiety or depression and are in need of crisis support, please call the Crisis Call Center’s 24-hour hotline at 1-775-784-8090. 

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Dating during COVID-19 is weird and hard in the best of times — by which I mean, in the spring, summer, and fall, when the world might be hanging on a razor’s edge, but at least the weather is somewhat nice. Dating during COVID-19 in the winter? Ugh. Who really wants to eat cold fries and make witty conversation while looking like Bernie Sanders at the inauguration?

Still, since December, the microscopic section of my brain that skews toward optimism kept screaming that despite the odds, 2021 could be my year when it came to dating. I just had to be smart, safe, and willing to think a little outside the box to come up with solid winter date ideas.

“Creativity is the name of the game right now,” agrees Damona Hoffman, a dating coach and host of The Dates & Mates Podcast. “We can be frustrated about our lack of dating options or we can do something different.” Break out your layers (including your face mask), then check out these unique and winter-friendly date ideas for every stage of a pandemic-era relationship.

Virtual Winter Date Ideas

“Meeting up” via FaceTime or Zoom is a great option for winter. It’s the safest bet while we wait for the vaccine, and you don’t have to freeze your toes off while outdoor dining.

Sip & stream 

Sign up for a streaming Sip & Paint event. To make it even more seasonal, pick a snowy painting (like “Winter Landscape” by Wassily Kandinsky) and opt for hot cocoa instead of wine. If painting isn’t your thing, sign up for another virtual course or event. “There are so many online experiences, from virtual escape rooms to drag queen shows,” Hoffman says. “Just because it’s happening online doesn’t mean it has to be dull. Most virtual performers and entertainment venues have now figured out ways to make their offerings interactive and sometimes even more fun that they were offline.”

Eat in

Hook up via FaceTime, and cook the same warming dish — maybe a stew or chicken and dumplings — in your respective kitchens. After you’re done with the prep, sit down together and “share” the meal over Zoom. This idea is great for a newish relationship; cooking gives you plenty to talk about.

Play games

Cue up an old-school video game together online. Bonus points for anything that includes winter sports, such as Mario & Sonic at the Olympic Winter Games. Or play a conversation-starter card game, like the currently trendy We’re Not Really Strangers. “The New York Times did an article a couple years ago on The 36 Questions that Lead to Love and showed that strangers can feel more bonded by asking certain questions of one another,” Hoffman notes. (The questions in the article are another great place to start, if you don’t have a deck of WNRS cards.)

Social Distancing Winter Date Ideas

Remember: Outdoor dates aren’t 100% safe, Hoffman says, so be informed before you take this risk with someone. Wear your face mask, and stick with activities that really let you stay at least six feet apart.

Snow sports

Opt for sledding or tubing over ice skating. “While you might be outdoors and masked, depending on how busy the ice skating rink is, you could come in close contact with other people,” Hoffman notes. Instead, pick an empty hill and stick to separate sleds.

Horseback riding

This is is a cool, unique idea for a distancing date (that takes a page from The Bachelorette). There is a downside though. “You can’t really have deep, in depth conversations, which doesn’t make it ideal for a new couple or first date,” Hoffman says. If you’re still getting to know each other, follow up your ride with a socially distanced walk with some warm coffee or cocoa. 

Think outside-the-walks

We know: Walking with a warm beverage is a great date, but it can get a little old. So mix up your location. “If it’s cold, some of my clients have tried visiting snowy nature preserves where they can walk and talk to keep warm,” Hoffman says. Another option: If you’re both into exercise, consider running with each other, which will keep you even warmer. 

At-Home Winter Date Ideas 

So you’ve gone on some great virtual and distanced dates, gotten tested, and have decided to officially bubble up. Being able to safely stay inside together opens up a whole new world of winter date activities.

Trust exercises

Grab a scarf and turn it into a blindfold. Then… do a trust walk. Not where you thought we were going, I’m sure. But you can do other blindfolded stuff later, if you so choose. “One of the best ways to build intimacy is to put your complete trust in your partner,” Hoffman explains. Yes, you’ve already established some trust, since you’re seeing each other in person. But a trust-building game can solidify this feeling — and it’s fun.

Cook (again)

Make a meal together, in person this time. There’s something about navigating a kitchen together that’s intimate without being too intense — perfect for a date night. “Preparing a meal together fosters important relationship skills including patience and communication,” adds Hoffman. My friend and her pandemic SO made gnocchi on one of their first in-person dates, but Hoffman like box meal kits. “Most require you to order by midweek for the following week, which could even build excitement and anticipation for the date,” she says.

Go back outdoors

We know, we know — you are quarantining together, why would you head back into the frigid temps? But winter stargazing without needing to socially distance is pretty darn romantic. “Gazing at the stars provides two people with the perfect opportunity to talk and keep each other warm under a clear night sky,” Hoffman says. It’s been years since air and light pollution was this low, which is giving us a darker-than-usual night sky,” she continues. “If you can’t name the constellations on your own, try an app like Star Walk to guide you.”

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The Moderna and Pfizer vaccines are slowly continuing to become more widely available nationwide, and it looks like the Johnson & Johnson vaccine may be on the way as well. Most people are eager to get vaccinated, but many are asking: If I had and recovered from COVID-19, should I still get the vaccine? 

The answer is yes, but there are a few caveats, according to The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Both COVID-19 vaccines available in the U.S. right should be offered to you whether you’ve had the virus or not, and you won’t need to take an antibody test before getting the vaccine. 

That’s because while people who’ve recovered from COVID-19 do appear to have some immunity to the virus, we still don’t know how powerful that immunity is — or how long it lasts, says Saskia V. Popescu, PhD, an infectious disease epidemiologist and assistant professor at George Mason University.

“We know the vaccines are 95% effective in preventing you from getting COVID-19 and we want everyone to get that benefit,” adds Nate Favini, MD MS, Medical Lead at Forward. After all, the vaccine doesn’t just help protect you — it also helps stop the spread of COVID-19 in your community. “It’s important to get the vaccine for several reasons — to help protect you and those around you, to help reduce the prevalence of COVID-19 in the community and thus the burden on healthcare and public health,” Dr. Popescu explains. 

Now, about the caveats. If you currently have COVID-19, the CDC emphasizes that you should wait to receive your vaccine until you’ve quarantined, aren’t feeling sick any more, and have met the CDC guidelines for coming out of isolation. 

And once you recover from COVID-19, you may want to wait 90 days before getting the shot, the agency adds, stating: “Current evidence suggests that reinfection with the virus that causes COVID-19 is uncommon in the 90 days after initial infection. Therefore, people with a recent infection may delay vaccination until the end of that 90-day period if desired.”

Ultimately, whether you decide to wait is up to you — but if you decide to hold off, you should definitely get the vaccine once your 90-day window is up, notes Paul Pottinger, MD, a professor specializing in infectious disease at the University of Washington School of Medicine. Although, until this point, the vaccine rollout has been slow going; you may not be eligible to receive the shot within that 90-day time frame anyway.  

“In general, we’re not encouraging anyone who’s eligible to delay vaccination,” Dr. Favini says. “Certainly people who may be at higher risk because of their age or other conditions should get the vaccine regardless of how recently they may have been infected.” Dr. Popescue agrees, saying “The goal is to get everyone vaccinated by their priority group.”

“The CDC’s clinical considerations say, yes, it’s fine to get vaccinated, and yes, it’s fine to step back and let others go first and it’s because they almost certainly have some degree of antibody or immunity from the infection itself,” says Colonel John D. Grabenstein, RPh, PhD, the general manager of Vaccine Dynamics and editor for the Immunization Action Coalition. “We just don’t know how durable that is. Do they have a ‘mild or serious’ case.” 

“Everyone should be immunized and that’s because we believe it’ll give stronger, better, and longer immunity,” Dr. Pottinger says. “We’re trying to get to those folks at the highest risk, if someone’s recently had it they probably have a month or two before they need to get it, but those who’ve had it and know how bad it can be. They should know that the only thing worse than COVID is more COVID.”

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Molly Longman, Khareem Sudlow