April 24, the 36th day of quarantine, felt like another Groundhog Day, but it was actually much different than the 35 days before that. That's because this day was the beginning of Ramadan. Ramadan is a month-long spiritual diet in which I and other Muslims abstain from food and drink (yes, even water) from sunrise to sunset each day.

With hundreds of millions of people displaced across the country to slow the spread of COVID-19, Ramadan could not have come at a better time. Ramadan is the Islamic holy month dedicated to self-discipline and reflection. I usually look forward to this vacation. It is a time to realign priorities, eat thoughtfully, and repent of my pagan ways. It's bigger than religion: it's a state of mind that forces us to pause and rethink our lives.

During Ramadan, I am usually my best self. For this foul-mouthed New Yorker, I don't curse much during the 30 days; I don't shamelessly inhale Tastykakes. Every day, I exercise for 30 minutes before fasting. I am more charitable. I don't yell at my kids on the subway.

But my 2020 bingo card didn't say, "I will fast through the global pandemic."

This year's Ramadan brings a whole new set of challenges. Muslims are accustomed to fasting, but now they must fast at a moment when food is a unifying factor. For many of us, grocery shopping is the only outing of the week (and thus the most exciting). In our vast leisure time, our culinary skills have reached new Gordon Ramsay heights. Like many others on Instagram, I have baked seven loaves of chocolate chip banana bread since becoming an unkempt recluse.

Now we must give up the one thing that feels like holding our fraying lives together. And alone. Fasting is difficult, but it is easier when we have friends who share the same suffering. For Muslims, iftar (the breaking of the fast at sunset) is usually celebrated daily through feasts with friends and family. The "aunties" host lavish banquets, and their concerns about the prospect of marriage are as much a core element of Ramadan as fasting. Other essential elements of Ramadan are Nanna's homemade samosas, grape leaves, and going to IHOP at 4 a.m. with friends to eat suhoor (an Islamic term for a meal eaten before sunrise). These cultural moments shape the holiday. Today, due to the order of social distance, we begin and end each day not in celebration, but in solitude.

Social distancing, while entirely necessary, makes the usual Ramadan traditions impossible. You can't stroll aimlessly through the mall for hours with friends, killing time until dinner or buying jumpsuits you'll never wear; you can't lock yourself in a double feature movie theater and forget about the food you haven't eaten; you can't spend the night in a hotel room with a friend, only to find that you have to go back to the hotel for dinner. They can't attend big gatherings with inquisitive relatives and spend a lot of time explaining why they don't need a life partner. Instead, I stay cooped up at home, the food in the fridge taunting me.

While weekday work drives me crazy (I work a remote job in news production), as soon as I shut down the computer for the day, my mind drifts to the food. To pass the time until the meal is ready, I watch cooking tutorials on YouTube. Finally, the sun sets and I break my fast with a typical "meal". Dates, boxed macaroni and cheese, carrots, hummus, and two slices of cold deli meat; after watching three episodes of Love Is Blind, I conclude that marriage is a trap, chug water, brush my teeth, and fall asleep. The days fall into a painfully consistent pattern: sleep, fast, (finally) eat, repeat.

It's hard and lonely. But despite what feels like an endless monotonous cycle, I am determined to continue my self-discipline. I do not intend to let this situation defeat me. I intend to quench my thirst with a glass half full attitude. Perhaps nowhere in history is the spirit of Ramadan more needed than at this time of year. Ramadan is an important pillar of faith that encourages strength of will, charity, and commitment to oneself. Isolating oneself from others is the most charitable thing one can do right now, Muslim or not.

No, you cannot go to the mosque with your family and stand shoulder to shoulder to perform Taraweeh, the special evening prayer. But we can pray at home. Eid, which celebrates the end of the holy month (May 23), was canceled this year. With food banks across the country facing massive food shortages, let us turn our attention to giving zakat (alms) to those who are fasting.

So perhaps the arrival of Ramadan this year could not have come at a better time. Meditation takes on a new form in fasting: self-control has changed my perspective on the state of the world I live in. Each day is easier than the last, even if only by a small margin. Whatever spiritual journey we are now on, may we gain new victories from it.

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