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I still remember the exact day everything changed. It was a Friday afternoon, and my mom got a phone call from the school. She hung up, turned to me, and said, “You’re not going to school for the next two weeks.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I had heard about this virus that was spreading in other countries, but I assumed it was something small, something that would blow over quickly. Two weeks off of school sounded like a vacation. I imagined sleeping in, watching movies, and catching up on homework that I probably wouldn’t actually do. But then two weeks turned into a month, and that month stretched into two years.

Suddenly, life as we knew it came to a halt. And with that, so did many of the cultural traditions we took for granted.

Looking back, it’s incredible how much the pandemic reshaped how we connect and celebrate. Holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas moved from crowded dining rooms to glitchy Zoom calls. Birthdays were celebrated through car parades, with friends honking from their driveways. Even graduations turned into virtual ceremonies, where instead of walking across a stage, students waved to webcams in their living rooms.

But it wasn’t just the big events that changed, it was the small rituals too. Family dinners became sacred again. People started baking bread, cooking traditional recipes, and gardening as ways to feel grounded. Communities found creative ways to stay connected, from drive-in movie nights to socially distanced outdoor gatherings. Somehow, even in isolation, we found ways to hold onto what made us human.

Anthropologists often talk about how pandemics throughout history reshape culture. During the Black Plague in the 14th century, for example, people reexamined faith and mortality, leading to shifts in art, religion, and medicine. During the 1918 flu pandemic, traditions like handshakes disappeared for years, and public health became a collective value. COVID-19 will be remembered the same way, not just for the science behind it, but for how it transformed everyday life.

What fascinates me is how quickly new traditions replaced old ones. We learned to celebrate virtually, to express affection through screens, to mourn without being physically present. And even though it was hard, it showed how adaptable people are. Our rituals didn’t disappear, they evolved.

When I finally returned to school two years later, everything felt different. People had changed, but so had the way we valued community. Simple things, like sitting with friends at lunch or seeing someone’s full smile without a mask, felt meaningful again.

Pandemics have a strange way of reminding us what matters. They strip away the excess and force us to rebuild our traditions around connection, empathy, and resilience. So while that phone call from my mom marked the beginning of something scary and uncertain, it also marked the start of a new kind of cultural awakening, one that taught us how to hold on to each other, even when we had to stay apart.

I still remember sitting in a crowded conference hall one summer during a media and journalism program. One of the most respected journalists in the country had come to speak to us about what makes journalism truly great. She said a lot of insightful things that day, but there was one line that stuck with me, and probably always will.

She said, “The best communicators start off as great listeners.”

At first, I didn’t really understand what she meant. I thought being a good communicator was about how well you could speak, how confident your voice sounded, how clearly you could express your point, how engaging your story was. Listening didn’t seem like the main skill. But as I got more involved in journalism and began doing interviews and stories myself, I realized just how right she was.

The best stories I’ve ever told were the ones I almost missed, because I wasn’t just hearing the words being said, I was listening for what wasn’t.

One of the most eye-opening experiences for me came when I met a woman named Sylvia while volunteering at a local food pantry. It was a hot summer day, and I was helping distribute watermelons door-to-door for families in need. When I got to Sylvia’s door, she smiled politely but said very little. I asked her a few casual questions about the food program, but she looked down, avoiding eye contact. For a moment, I considered moving on. But something about the silence made me pause.

Instead of filling the quiet with small talk, I decided to wait. And after a few seconds, Sylvia began to speak, not just about the food she received that day, but about her entire experience living with food insecurity. She told me about the challenges she faced affording fresh produce, how rising costs made it impossible to buy healthy food, and how many families she knew were struggling silently. She said most people stopped talking about it because they felt unheard.

That moment changed everything for me. I realized that so many stories go untold not because people don’t have anything to say, but because no one’s listening long enough for them to say it.

Since that day, I’ve learned to appreciate the power of silence. Sometimes the most meaningful parts of a conversation happen after the question, in that pause when someone decides whether or not they can trust you with their truth. Listening isn’t passive, it’s active, intentional, and deeply human.

In journalism and storytelling, listening transforms how you see the world. It turns interviews into conversations, subjects into people, and stories into something living and real. When you really listen, you’re not just collecting quotes, you’re understanding emotion, context, and depth.

That summer conference taught me about the power of words. But Sylvia taught me something even more valuable: that the stories worth telling often come from the moments when you stop talking. Every great communicator, I’ve come to believe, starts there, with open ears, open eyes, and a genuine willingness to hear before being heard.

Goldfish have a longer attention span than we do! In 2000, the average human attention span was 12 seconds, after only 22 years, we are down to about 8.2. A goldfish can keep it together for 9 seconds.

The fight for 15 seconds is a battle I’ve fought for 3 years. I spend hours perfecting videos for YouTube. At the start, the average viewer stayed on my videos for only 8 seconds. Following these terrible analytics, I dove into research on the human attention span and how to hold onto it. Here’s what I learned: 

• Use bold colors
• Edit cleanly
• Make your message clear
• Jump to the point
• Never waste a second

Now, I average a whopping 16 seconds. That may sound tiny but it’s 8 seconds longer than most video retention scores!

Use Bold Colors 

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An object stands out against its environment when it is brighter and more colorful. High-contrast colors travel to our brains the quickest, effectively winning attention and retention. 

I never use pastel colors. Primary colors brightened to the max are my go-to’s. 

Edit Cleanly

Clean/professional editing is the key to allowing your audience to fully engage with your content. When I watch something, I want to be fully immersed in the action. However, a bad cut will immediately snap me out of the story and I will skip to the next video. 

It is important to take the time to edit seamlessly because the way you piece your content together is critical to the connection with your audience. 

You want them to stick with you for more than your allotted 8 seconds. 

Make your message clear

“Make sure to like, comment, share, and subscribe.” 

This is the sentence that starts almost every video on social media. However, it is a big mistake. 

I remember the first time my family didn’t have dinner with all five of us. For as long as I can remember, dinner was the anchor of our day. No matter how busy we were, my parents always made it a point for everyone to sit together at the table, talk about our days, and eat as a family. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about the ritual.

But when my brother went off to college, everything changed. Our table of five became four. Then I got older, too. Suddenly, I had after-school activities, club meetings, and homework that stretched late into the night. I started eating dinner hunched over my textbooks instead of sitting down with my parents.

What used to be laughter and conversation turned into quiet bites between study sessions. I didn’t think much of it at first, but eventually, I started to notice the difference, not just in our family routine, but in the way I felt.

It’s funny how much a dinner table can hold. It’s not just plates and food; it’s identity. It’s where culture, tradition, and values are passed down, sometimes without anyone even realizing it.

I still remember the exact moment it happened.
It was the Fourth of July, and my family and I were driving to see fireworks when my phone suddenly exploded with notifications. Thousands of them. For a second, I thought something was wrong, then I realized what had happened: my most recent YouTube video had gone viral.

It was the moment I had dreamed about for an entire year. I had poured hours into editing, scripting, and fine-tuning my videos, hoping one of them would finally break through. And that night, it did. But after the excitement settled, a question started to form in my head: why that video?

Why do some videos go viral while others—sometimes even better ones—barely get noticed? I knew it couldn’t just be about effort. There are thousands of small creators who spend hours perfecting their videos that never get traction, while some random five-second clip takes off overnight. So, I started researching.

What I found was that social media platforms operate like companies—their algorithms are designed to keep viewers on the platform for as long as possible. That means videos that are sticky, emotional, or easy to share are favored. It’s less about production quality and more about engagement potential. If your video makes people watch till the end—or better yet, makes them comment, like, or share, it tells the algorithm, “Hey, this keeps people hooked,” and the platform pushes it out to more users.

But there’s also a psychological side to virality. Studies show that videos that trigger strong emotions, especially awe, laughter, or anger, tend to spread faster. Humans are wired to share emotional experiences. When something makes us feel deeply, we want others to feel it too. That’s why heartwarming rescue videos, shocking headlines, and funny clips blow up—they make us react instantly.

Timing also plays a role. Posting when your audience is most active or when a topic is trending can make the difference between 100 views and 1,000,000. People want to feel part of the moment, and viral content feeds that sense of belonging.

And then there’s the “relatability factor.” Viral videos often feel personal. They look raw, authentic, and unscripted, even when they’re not. Viewers see a bit of themselves in the creator or the situation, which builds trust and makes them hit “share.”

So while I may not have cracked the full formula behind virality, I’ve learned this: going viral isn’t just about luck. It’s about understanding how people think, feel, and connect. Every share, every comment, every click, it’s all part of a bigger psychological pattern.

That Fourth of July taught me more than what it feels like to go viral. It showed me how powerful storytelling can be, even in its simplest, shortest form. And ever since then, I’ve been chasing not just numbers, but the human reasons behind them.