The Brief

As we mark five years on from the start of the coronavirus pandemic this month, life has changed for many people, in ways both mundane and profound.

Dr. Kurt Papenfus is someone NPR interviewed in 2020. The CEO of a small hospital in rural Colorado, Papenfus first took care of COVID patients, then he became one. He told us the story of driving himself to Denver — with an escort of sheriff's deputies to make sure he made it — so he could get the intensive care he knew he needed for COVID pneumonia.

"The 'rona beast is a very nasty beast," he said back then. "It has a very mean temper. It loves a fight, and it loves to keep coming after you."

Papenfus now praises the investment in research that, he believes, advanced science by decades in just a few years. Personally, he has struggled with the brain fog of long COVID, and he has learned a lesson about conserving his energy.

"COVID was a harsh reminder that, 'Yeah, you better take care of yourself. If you can't take care of yourself, how are you going to take care of other people?'" Papenfus says.

Here are five more examples of lessons we have learned and things COVID changed permanently, though it is not an exhaustive list.

1. Video calls made the room bigger and distances shorter

Has this happened to you? You're watching something on Netflix from, say, 2018. There's a video conference call in the story line and it's presented as something odd, cool, unusual.

The pandemic changed that for everyone.

Zoom and other video conference apps became a common part of business and personal life.

Despite the occasional frozen screen glitches and folks joining calls in their ratty pajamas, there are upsides.

Beth Hendrix, executive director of the League of Women Voters of Colorado, said the use of remote conferencing led her group to become truly statewide. It allowed more meaningful participation for folks from the eastern plains to the west side of Colorado, called the Western Slope.

Before, all their meetings were in person, which "kept folks outside of the metro from really taking part in leadership actions. So that is one positive thing."

Michael Dougherty, Boulder County's district attorney, saw a similar silver lining: Virtual court proceedings allowed a lot more people to take part.

"We also have victims who are scared to be in the same room as a defendant or his loved ones," he said. "They now can attend court virtually without the defendant even knowing they're there."

2. Pandemic pups brought us two-legged friends too

Many people became pet owners for the first time during the pandemic. Grace Markley of Denver said one of the surprising and beautiful things of the crisis was "we ended up adopting a miniature bernedoodle."

She met neighbors who also adopted pandemic dogs. They hung out outside, socialized over potlucks and happy hours, connected over the canines and formed what they called their Doodlefest. It became a regular gathering, a holiday card featuring poodle-mix doggos, and a group chat. "And to date there are 22 of us on the chat," Markley said.

A bernedoodle is a dog that is a cross between a poodle and a Bernese mountain dog.

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"This part of town is just alive with pandemic puppies. So that was something that was really special for us. And five years in, we are still going strong," Markley said.

3. Health inequities were exposed and so was vaccine hesitancy

COVID exposed stark inequities in both society and the health system.

Julissa Soto, a health equity consultant, helped both spotlight and address them at hundreds of clinics around Colorado.

One instance was at Ascension Catholic Parish in Denver's Montbello neighborhood, where in 2021, she told the masked congregation that COVID-19 vaccines are safe, effective and available.

"I'm on a mission to get my community vaccinated, and I will not stop until I get the last Latino vaccinated," she said at the time.

Over the course of the pandemic, she helped get about 60,000 people vaccinated, by her count, at more than 400 vaccine clinics and events like the one at Ascension Catholic Church.

A vaccination event in December 2021 in Denver's Montbello neighborhood organized by Julissa Soto. She estimates she helped 60,000 people get their COVID shots.

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Fast forward to 2025, and Soto says it's important to remember how many people were lost.

"Really sad, lots and lots of people died," she said in an interview.

In Colorado, the number of people who died surpassed 16,000, according to figures reported by the CDC. More than 1.2 million people died across the country.

Most Coloradans got vaccinated, but the Latino community, which was hit hard by the virus, barely got to a 50% vaccination rate, Soto said. The low rate provided her "an opportunity to highlight the inequities. They have always existed in public health."

During the 2024-25 respiratory virus season, less than 25% of Colorado adults got the updated COVID-19 vaccine.

Among the lessons Soto said she learned in the pandemic: to pivot, think on her feet, remove barriers, challenge the status quo.

"I believe that we're going to find solutions," she said. "Remember from every setback, it will be a comeback."

4. The classroom changed, and challenges set in

For some, the dark clouds of the pandemic still exist.

Melanie Potyondy, a public school psychologist in Fort Collins, says she's noticed a troubling trend with kids: "a lack of resilience, a lack of that grit, that I think I saw in previous cohorts of kids prior to the pandemic."

She says they're now quicker to give up, quicker to write off a teacher they don't click with. Add in a reliance on technology, which "compounds this diminished level of grit in that it's so easy to hide out behind a phone and to not have to have difficult conversations with people in person."

Schools have begun experimenting with cellphone bans during class, but the jury is still out on whether that will solve the learning challenges teachers and students have been reporting since the disruption of the pandemic.

5. Long COVID appears here to stay

"Hard to believe, five years later. Still in a little bit of recovery mode" is how Denver resident Clarence Troutman summed up his experience, both of getting COVID-19 and then long COVID.

Troutman was a broadband technician with CenturyLink, a telecom company, for 37 years. He caught the virus at the start of the pandemic, was hospitalized and on a ventilator for a time, and ended up staying in the hospital for two months.

Five years on, life is a mixed bag for Troutman, who had to retire from his job because of his health.

Clarence Troutman had to retire due to long COVID, but he is grateful today that he feels well enough to enjoy visits with his grandchildren who live in Atlanta.

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"I don't have the neuropathy I used to have," he says, citing a bright spot. That's nerve damage causing pain, numbness or tingling.

"Kind of the psychological scars of everything have honestly kind of healed," he says, noting the positive side of the ledger.

But he still grapples with chronic fatigue, brain fog and diminished lung capacity. Troutman says a long COVID patient group he joined after he got sick still meets regularly, comparing their experiences, supporting each other.

"We're still a tight little group and we're getting better together," he says.

He's started working out at his local rec center, thanks to his improving health. And he said he's closer than ever to his son and two grandkids in Atlanta.

"I feel truly blessed every day when I think about the people that weren't able to make it through this thing or changed forever, even worse than I am. I know I'm blessed," he said. "I'm a very lucky guy."

Troutman said another good thing was his discovery of an inner power.

"You kind of tap into a strength or resiliency you didn't even know you had until all this happened," Troutman said. "So yeah, it's been quite the journey. Quite the journey."

Copyright 2025 NPR

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

Since 1977, Richard Santillan has been to every Opening Day game at Dodger Stadium. 

“The tradition goes from my father, to me, to my children and grandchildren. Some of my best memories are with my father and children here at Dodger Stadium,” Santillan told The LA Local, smiling under the shade of palm trees near the entrance to the ballpark Wednesday morning. He was there to protest the team less than 24 hours before Opening Day.

Santillan, like countless other loyal Dodgers fans, is grappling with his fan identity over the team’s decision to accept an invitation to the White House and owner Mark Walter’s ties to ICE detention facilities.

More than 30 people joined Santillan on Wednesday morning for a press conference held near 1000 Vin Scully Drive to convey a message directly to the team. 

“We are demanding the Dodgers stop participating in funding of inhumane treatment of families and do not go to the White House to celebrate with the criminal in chief,” Evelyn Escatiola told the crowd. “Together, we have the power to make a change.”

Escatiola, a former dean of East Los Angeles College and longtime community organizer, urged fans to flex their economic power by “letting the Dodgers know that we do not support repression.”

Jorge “Coqui” Rodriguez, a lifelong Dodgers fan, spoke to the crowd and called on Dodgers ownership to divest from immigration detention centers owned and operated by GEO Group and CoreCivic.

Jorge Coqui H Rodriguez speaks at a press conference outside Dodger Stadium on March 25, 2026, to demand the Dodgers not to visit the White House following their 2025 World Series win.

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In a phone interview a day before the protest, Rodriguez told The LA Local he did not want the Dodgers using his “cheve” or beer money to fund detention centers. 

“They can’t take our parking money, our cacahuate money, our cheve money, our Dodger Dog money and invest those funds into corporations that are imprisoning people. It’s wrong,” Rodriguez said. 

Rodriguez considers the Dodgers one of the most racially diverse teams and said the players need to support fans at a time when heightened immigration enforcement has become more common across L.A.

The team’s 2025’s visit to the White House drew ire from the largely Latino fan base, citing the Trump administration’s ongoing attacks on immigrants. 

In June, the team came under further scrutiny when rumors swirled online that federal immigration agents were using the stadium’s parking, which immigration authorities later denied in statements posted on social media accounts.

The team again came under fire after not releasing a statement on the impacts of ICE raids on its mostly Latino fan base at the height of immigration enforcement last summer. The team later agreed to invest $1 million to support families affected by immigration enforcement.

When he learned the Dodgers were pledging only $1 million to families in need, Rodriguez called the amount a  “slap in the face.” 

“These guys just bought the Lakers for billions of dollars and they give a million dollars to fight for legal services? That’s a joke,” Rodriguez said. “They need to have a moral backbone and not be investing in those companies.”

According to reporting from the Los Angeles Times, former Dodgers pitcher Clayton Kershawsaid last week that he is looking forward to the trip.

“I went when President [Joe] Biden was in office. I’m going to go when President [Donald] Trump is in office,” Kershaw said. “To me, it’s just about getting to go to the White House. You don’t get that opportunity every day, so I’m excited to go.”

The Dodgers have yet to announce when their planned visit will take place. 

Santillan sometimes laments his decision to give up his season tickets in protest of the team. His connection to the stadium and the memories he has made there with family and friends will last a lifetime, he said. On Thursday, he will uphold his tradition and be there for the first pitch of the season, but with a heavy heart.

“It’s a family tradition, but the Dodgers have a lot of work to do,” he said.

A local favorite mom-and-pop bookshop in Eagle Rock is facing displacement due to a steep rent hike. The owners say theirs is just one of several small businesses along Eagle Rock Boulevard struggling to keep up with lease increases.

Over the past 19 years, many in the neighborhood have come to love READ Books for its eclectic collection of used titles and shop dog Florence.

Co-owner Jeremy Kaplan said it’s been a delight to grow with the community over the years.

“Like seeing kids come back in, who were in grade school and now they’re in college,” Kaplan said.

But the building where Kaplan and wife Debbie rent was recently sold, and the rent increased by more than 130% to $2,805 a month, Kaplan said. He told LAist it was an increase his small business simply could not absorb.

Kaplan said he originally was given 30 days notice of the rent increase. After some research, assistance from Councilmember Ysabel Jurado’s office and some pro-bono legal help, Kaplan said he pushed back and got the 90-day notice he’s afforded by state law.

California Senate Bill 1103 requires landlords to give businesses with five or less employees 90 days’ notice for rent increases exceeding 10%, among other protections.

Systems Real Estate, the property management company, did not immediately respond to LAist’s request for comment.

What can small businesses do? 

Nadia Segura, directing attorney of the Small Business Program at pro bono legal aid non-profit Bet Tzedek said California law does not currently allow for rent control for commercial tenancies.

Outside of the protections under SB 1103, Segura said small businesses like READ Books don’t have much other recourse. And even then, commercial landlords are not required to inform their tenants of their protections under the law.

“There’s still a lot of people that don’t know about SB 1103. And then it’s very sad that they tell them they have these rent increases and within a month they have to leave,” Segura said.

She said her group is seeing steep rent hikes like this for commercial tenants across the city.

“We are seeing this even more with the World Cup coming up, the Olympics coming up. And I will say it was very sad to see that also after the wildfires,” Segura said.

Part of Bet Tzedek’s ongoing work is to advocate for small businesses, working with landlords who are increasing rents to see if they are willing to give business owners longer leases that lock in rents.

What’s next 

After READ Books posted about their situation on social media, commenters chimed in to express their outrage and love for the little shop.

While he looks for a new spot, Kaplan says he’s forming a coalition of local businesses and activist groups to see what can be done to help other small businesses facing similar displacement. He wants to address the displacement issue for businesses like his, which have made Eagle Rock the distinctive neighborhood that it is today.

Owl Talk, a longtime Eagle Rock staple selling clothing and accessories in a unit in the same building as READ Books, is facing a “more than double” rent increase, according to a post on their Instagram account.

Kaplan said he’s been in touch with the office of state Assemblywoman Jessica Caloza and wants to explore the possibility of introducing legislation to set up protections for small businesses like his, including rent-control measures or a vacancy tax for landlords. Kaplan said he also reached out to the office of state Sen. Maria Durazo.

By his count, Kaplan said there are about a dozen businesses within surrounding blocks that are at risk of closing their doors or have shuttered due to rent increases or other struggles.

When READ Books was founded during the Great Recession, Kaplan said he knew it was a longshot to open a bookstore at the same time so many were struggling to stay in business.

“It was kind of interesting to be doing something that neighborhoods needed. That was important to me growing up, that was important to my children, that was important to my wife growing up,” Kaplan said.

“And then somebody comes in and says, ‘We’re gonna over double your rent.”

Topline:

Frozen budget: Most of the city’s Bureau of Street Lighting budget comes from an assessment that people who own property illuminated by lights pay on their county property tax bill. The amount people pay depends on the kind of property they own and how much they benefit from lighting. A typical single-family home currently pays $53 annually, and in total, the assessments bring in about $45 million annually for the city to repair and maintain streetlights. Changing the amount the Bureau of Street Lighting gets from the assessment requires a vote among property owners who benefit from the lights.

Ballots: L.A. City Council’s vote gives city staff the green light to prepare and send out those ballots. Miguel Sangalang, who oversees the bureau, said at a committee meeting earlier this month that he expects to send out ballots by April 17. Notices about the ballots will be sent out prior to the ballots themselves.

Near unanimous vote: L.A. City Councilmember Monica Rodriguez was the only “No” vote Tuesday, saying she wanted to see a more current strategic plan for the bureau. Sangalang said the bureau developed a plan in 2022 that lays out how money will be spent. Councilmember Imelda Padilla was absent for the vote.

Vote count: Votes will be weighted according to the assessment amount. Basically, the more you’re asked to pay yearly to maintain streetlights, the more your vote will count. Ballots received before June 2 will be tabulated by the L.A. City Clerk.

How much more money: According to a report, the amount needed in assessments from property owners to meet the repair and maintenance needs of the city’s streetlighting in the next fiscal year is nearly $112 million.

Use of the money: Sangalang said at a March 11 committee meeting that the extra funds would be used to double the number of staff to handle repairs and procure solar streetlights, which don’t face the threat of copper wire theft. That would all potentially reduce the time it takes to repair simple fixes down to a week. Currently, city residents wait for months to see broken streetlights repaired. The assessment would come with a three-year auditing mechanism.