I knew there would be risks and challenges in moving to China eight years ago, but the possibility of semi-house arrest to avoid becoming a disease vector was not one I had considered.

Luzhou, our Chinese hometown of 4 million in the south of Sichuan Province, is not that close to Wuhan, the epicenter of the crisis 680 miles away. But along with the rest of the country, we’ve had an increasing level of restrictions on our movements since the Chinese New Year in late January.

The whole experience has been alternately terrifying and boring. (Sometimes both at once.) The news of the spread of the virus took place around my birthday on Jan. 30. We were planning to visit a nearby hot springs, or maybe host a dinner at a restaurant for our friends. But by my birthday, gatherings of more than four people were officially prohibited. So I stayed at home, and made peanut-butter blossoms.

By Feb. 10, I was forced to work from home. At first, the government issued red cards that only permitted us to leave the grounds of our high-rise apartment complex every two days. I have to say it was a little frightening to be house-bound at the beginning. Although the red card system has officially ended, and people have just started to return to work, teachers like me are still not permitted to return to school.

My school is only a block away, and I used to have a typical Monday through Friday schedule before the virus. But now, it’s considered dangerous to have people in close proximity to each other, especially when they are young children. So instead, I record a few video lessons each week, and upload them to our class’ private WeChat group.

Now in a typical week, I leave the house once or twice to go to the supermarket or pharmacy across the street from our apartment. So essentially I’ve been confined to living life within one city block. This situation is self-imposed: City buses and taxis are still running, but I don’t really have anywhere else to go. The only businesses I see open are supermarkets, bakeries and pharmacies. Restaurants, banks, movie theaters, bars, the mall, are all shuttered.

I have to wear a face mask when I go outside, and the cashiers at the supermarket wear goggles. The doormen take your temperature at the supermarket and at our front gate.  Presumably, if you had a fever, they’d report you and send you to the hospital. We have an app on our phone that enables us to report someone who has a fever or otherwise appears sick.

At our front gate there’s a rug doused in antiseptic that you step on. The buttons in our elevator are all covered in plastic, and there’s a sign encouraging people to use a tissue to touch anything. My phone company keeps messaging me about the new 24-hour mental health hotline set up at one of the local hospitals to help people confined to their homes.

That may sound frightening, but we’ve grown so used to it that we have ceased to be scared. Everyone in the neighborhood is really relaxed now. There are only about 20 people sick in our area, but I don’t know anyone who has gone to hospital. So far no one has died of the virus in Luzhou. Our neighbors are not panicked, and the food supplies at the market haven’t dwindled.

We still need to wear a mask everywhere we go. Strapping it on before I leave the house is what really makes this experience feel like I’m living in some sort of apocalyptic film. The mask makes my face sweat, and overwhelms me with my own breath. I am required by law to wear it, and it actually feels like an act of courtesy and solidarity.

I’m not that worried about catching the coronavirus. I take precautions:  I wash my hands thoroughly. I was already a maniac about hand-washing because my kindergarten students are always spreading germs.

My husband and I have really thrown a lot of energy into our YouTube channel. We vlog about our situation every other day, and we’re also writing a short film inspired by this whole experience. The routine helps me feel grounded.

Maybe by the time the weather is warm we’ll finally be able to return to a normal life.

Emily Hulme, 40, has been living in Luzhou, China, for the last eight years. A former arts journalist who grew up in New York City and Suffolk County, she now works as a kindergarten teacher. Hulme and her husband Peter Sikorski, a musician and vlogger, also regularly post videos about their lives in China at YouTube.com/c/not_here.