Post-Pandemic Anxiety: Six Years Later, I Still Can’t Do Crowds

By Emily Sato
Published: December 28, 2025 • 9 min read

The concert was supposed to be a celebration.

It was 2025, and my favorite band was finally touring again. I’d waited five years for this. I bought tickets the day they went on sale. I marked my calendar. I picked out an outfit.

And then, standing in the venue lobby with hundreds of people pressing around me, I had a panic attack so severe I thought I was dying.

My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe. I was convinced—absolutely certain—that something terrible was about to happen. My wife found me twenty minutes later, crouched in a bathroom stall, sobbing.

We went home. I never saw the concert.

It’s been six years since the pandemic began, and I still can’t handle crowds.

Before and After

I wasn’t always like this.

Before 2020, I was social. I loved concerts and festivals and crowded restaurants. I traveled internationally alone. I took the subway during rush hour without a second thought.

Then came the pandemic. Two years of isolation, of fear, of a world that suddenly felt dangerous. My body learned new lessons during those years: crowds are threats. Closed spaces are dangerous. Other people might hurt you.

When the world reopened, I expected to bounce back. Everyone else seemed to. My friends returned to bars and offices and airplanes. Social media filled with photos of packed venues and maskless faces.

I couldn’t do it.

The First Attempt

My first post-pandemic party, I lasted forty-five minutes before my hands started shaking and I had to leave. My first day back in the office, I spent three hours in the parking lot, unable to walk in. My first flight, I cried the entire time—not because of turbulence, but because of the proximity of strangers.

What Post-Pandemic Anxiety Looks Like

I’m not alone. Mental health professionals have been seeing an epidemic of what they’re calling “post-pandemic anxiety disorder”—lingering, sometimes severe anxiety that persists years after COVID precautions ended.

For me, it looks like:

Crowd avoidance: I can’t do concerts, sporting events, festivals, or anywhere with dense crowds. Even busy grocery stores make me uncomfortable.

Hypervigilance in public: When I am in public spaces, I’m constantly scanning. How many people are here? Where are the exits? Who’s coughing?

Touch aversion: I still flinch when strangers get too close. Handshakes make me uncomfortable. Hugs from anyone except my immediate family feel like an invasion.

Social exhaustion: Even small social gatherings—dinner parties, work meetings—leave me drained in a way they never did before.

Persistent dread: A low-level hum of anxiety that something bad is coming. Not COVID specifically anymore, but something.

My nervous system got stuck in threat mode during the pandemic. And despite years of safety, it hasn’t fully come down.

The “Just Get Over It” Chorus

You know what doesn’t help? Being told to “just push through it.”

I’ve heard it all:

“The pandemic is over. You need to move on.”

“Exposure is the only way to get over it. Just force yourself.”

“You can’t live in fear forever.”

“Everyone else is fine. What’s wrong with you?”

Here’s what I want people to understand: I know the pandemic is over. My rational brain knows that crowds aren’t significantly more dangerous than they were in 2019. But anxiety doesn’t live in the rational brain. It lives in the nervous system—in the body—and bodies don’t operate on logic.

The Shame Spiral

The worst part isn't the anxiety itself—it's the shame. I feel weak, broken, pathetic. Everyone else moved on. Why can't I? What's wrong with me that two years of pandemic fundamentally rewired my brain? I've lost count of the events I've skipped, the friendships that have faded, the experiences I've missed because I couldn't handle them.

Finding Help

After the concert debacle, I finally sought help. My therapist diagnosed me with agoraphobia—specifically, pandemic-triggered agoraphobia—along with generalized anxiety disorder.

“Your brain learned during the pandemic that crowds were dangerous,” she explained. “And that learning was reinforced for two full years. Your nervous system can’t just unlearn that overnight. It takes intentional, gradual work.”

We started with exposure therapy—but gentle, controlled exposure, not the “throw yourself in the deep end” approach that well-meaning friends kept suggesting.

The Gradual Approach

Here’s what recovery has looked like for me:

Phase 1: Building the Foundation

Learning about how anxiety works in the body
Practicing grounding techniques (5-4-3-2-1, breathing exercises)
Understanding that my nervous system isn’t broken—it’s doing exactly what it learned to do

Phase 2: Tiny Exposures

Sitting in my car in a parking lot near a crowded store (not going in)
Walking through a less-crowded store during off-peak hours
Having coffee at a quiet café with one friend

Phase 3: Increasing Challenge

Going to a moderately busy grocery store
Eating at a restaurant (booth near the exit)
Attending a small gathering (under 10 people)

Phase 4: Where I Am Now

I can handle most stores and restaurants
I can attend small-to-medium social events with preparation
I still struggle with very crowded venues
I’ve accepted I may always need accommodations

Small Victories

Last month, I went to a movie theater for the first time since 2019. Matinee showing, mostly empty theater, aisle seat near the exit. I was anxious the whole time—but I stayed. I watched the entire movie. When the credits rolled, I cried. Not from panic, but from pride.

What’s Helped (And What Hasn’t)

Helpful:

Gradual exposure with a trained therapist
Medication (I started a low-dose SSRI that takes the edge off)
Self-compassion (this was hard for me—I had to stop berating myself for being “broken”)
Planning and accommodation (knowing where exits are, choosing off-peak times, sitting on the edges)
Connecting with others who understand (online communities for pandemic-related anxiety have been invaluable)

Not helpful:

Forced exposure before I was ready
Being told to “just get over it”
Comparing myself to people who recovered faster
Pretending I was fine and pushing through (led to worse panic attacks)
Alcohol (it reduced anxiety in the moment but made everything worse long-term)

The New Normal

I’ve had to accept that I may never be the person I was before the pandemic.

And you know what? That’s okay.

I’ve built a life that accommodates my anxiety. I work remotely. I choose smaller venues. I plan carefully. I communicate with friends and family about my limits. Some people don’t understand—some relationships have faded because of it—but the people who matter have adjusted with me.

I’ve also discovered unexpected gifts in my new reality:

I’m more intentional about the events I attend (if I’m going to be anxious, it better be worth it)
I’ve deepened my closest relationships rather than spreading myself thin
I’ve become an advocate for others with post-pandemic anxiety
I’ve developed coping skills that serve me well in other areas of life

To Others Still Struggling

If you're still dealing with pandemic-related anxiety, you're not alone. You're not broken. You're not weak. Your nervous system did exactly what it was designed to do—it learned to protect you in a dangerous time. The fact that it's taking time to unlearn doesn't mean anything is wrong with you. Be patient with yourself. Get professional help. And know that recovery is possible, even if it doesn't look like "going back to normal."

Looking Forward

I don’t know if I’ll ever comfortably attend a sold-out concert again. Maybe I will, with more time and more work. Maybe I won’t.

What I do know is that I’m no longer waiting to “get better” before I live my life. I’ve stopped seeing my anxiety as something to be cured before I can be happy. It’s part of me now—a part I manage, accommodate, and sometimes fight against, but a part nonetheless.

The pandemic changed all of us. Some of those changes were visible; some weren’t. If you’re carrying invisible scars, I see you. I’m right there with you.

We’re still here. We’re still showing up, even when showing up is hard. That’s not weakness.

That’s survival.

Emily Sato is a graphic designer and writer living in Denver, Colorado. She advocates for understanding and accommodation for those with lingering pandemic-related anxiety.