There’s a special kind of chaos that comes with everything falling apart at once. Not the small, manageable kind of chaos like missing your morning cafecito. No, I mean the full-on, soul-shaking stuff that makes you question if this is the beginning of your villain origin story. For me, it was 2019—a year that started with so much promise and ended with me staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom in Hialeah, wondering if I needed to sage my entire existence.

What went wrong, you ask? Sit back, because this one’s got all the makings of a telenovela: heartbreak, unexpected detours, and eventually, a dash of redemption. But before we get to the uplifting part, let’s rewind.

Act I: The Year That Said, “Hold My Mojito”

It began with a breakup. Not just any breakup—the blindsiding, rip-the-floor-out-from-under-you kind. I had been in a long-term relationship with someone I truly believed I’d grow old with. We had started looking at rings (well, I was “browsing,” she was sending Pinterest boards). And then, like an uninvited guest at a quinceañera, doubts crashed the party.

The relationship didn’t end with the drama of a reggaeton beat drop, though. Instead, it fizzled, quietly and painfully, and not for lack of love. Sometimes, two people just stop speaking the same language, even though they once danced perfectly in sync. By March, I was single for the first time in years, dazed and confused, like someone had yanked me off stage mid-salsa.

That would’ve been enough for most people, but life wasn’t done spinning me like a bottle of Havana Club. That summer, my freelance writing gigs started drying up. Editors ghosted, contracts weren’t renewed, and my bank account followed the heartbreak trend—depleted. Add to that a minor health scare (thankfully resolved), and suddenly, I was that overused meme of Ross from Friends, hysterically yelling, “Pivot!”

Actually, let’s scratch that—Ross is way too whiny. I saw myself more as Mufasa on the cliff, staring betrayal in the face, clutching to what little grip I had left.

Act II: Ultra-Thin Walls and Humble Pie

The universe, ever the comedic genius, decided the best place for me to lick my wounds would be back home with my family. Now, don’t get me wrong. I adore my parents. Their love is rock solid, fortified by 35 years of marriage and the shared ownership of a guava pastelito empire. But returning to their house as a 30-something? Oof.

If you’ve ever lived in a multigenerational Cuban household, you know privacy is about as rare as a day in Miami without rain. Forget soul-searching through meditation—I couldn’t even journal without my mom asking if I was writing “una novela.” Every well-intentioned question felt like a jab at my wounded pride. My dad (the more direct one) took to the standard line: “¿Y ahora qué vas a hacer, mijo?”

For months, I bounced between jobs no one dreams about and hobbies I didn’t love, trying to figure out who I was without the relationship, without the career stability I once had. I was scrambling, feeling like I was disappointing everyone, myself most of all.

But then came a moment of clarity—a quiet one, overlooked in most hero’s journeys. One muggy afternoon at the bakery, I was helping my mom hand out coladas to a line of regulars debating whether Pitbull or Marc Anthony reigns supreme. As I eavesdropped, I had to laugh at how utterly ridiculous and magical it was to grow up in a space shaped by community, resilience, and a shared love for drama. It hit me: my life wasn’t falling apart; it was recalibrating.

Act III: The Blueprint for Starting Over

Once I stopped wallowing and leaned into the lessons, I realized resilience isn’t something you find on a perfect Sunday with no Wi-Fi problems. It’s forged in moments like these—amid heartbreak and humility, with a soundtrack of unsolicited parental advice. So, I put myself to work, following five strategies that turned things around (and might help you too):

1. Redefine Your Non-Negotiables

First up, I took stock of what truly matters. If my life was a Cuban sandwich, what were the essential ingredients? (Spoiler: no one needs extra lettuce.) For me, that meant writing stories I believed in, cultivating relationships grounded in mutual respect, and moving toward financial independence. Everything else? Condiments.

2. Romance Yourself

This one felt impossibly cheesy at first, but dating myself taught me a lot. On some weekends, I’d head to Calle Ocho with a notebook or watch old Pedro Almodóvar films solo. Giving yourself permission to enjoy life without needing company is insanely freeing—and a little sexy, if we’re being honest. Who doesn’t vibe with their own main-character energy?

3. Seek Small Wins

There’s a lot of pressure to manifest some grand Cinderella turnaround, but I learned to celebrate the baby steps. Paid off one credit card? Victory. Wrote one paragraph of a short story? Heck yeah. Survive an awkward brunch with an ex’s mutual friends? Nobel Peace Prize worthy. Small wins stack up like dominos.

4. Ask For (and Accept) Help

This one slapped my ego hard, but accepting help saved me. Whether it was my mom slipping me extra croquetas for a late-night brainstorm session or friends sharing job leads, I swallowed my pride and learned to lean on people who wanted me to win.

5. Let Go of the Timeline

It’s easy to panic-scroll through social media, comparing yourself to friends climbing their career ladders or walking down flower-filled aisles. Instead, I embraced the idea that progress is messy and nonlinear, like the seasoning process for ropa vieja. You gotta let it simmer.

Act IV: The Comeback (Featuring a Well-Deserved Cocktail)

Eventually, I found myself again—not the pre-2019 version, but someone sturdier and more grounded. I snagged a few writing gigs and even started revising an unfinished novel that had been gathering dust on my desk. I moved into a tiny-but-charming apartment that smells faintly of mango candles and café colado. My heart still had its bruises, but I found joy in rebuilding.

And love? Well, it turns out that when you focus on personal growth, love has a miraculous way of finding you. I met someone—not through dating apps or meet-cutes, but at a mutual friend’s dominos night. (Classic, I know.) She’s brilliant and sunshiny, and when I talk about my dreams, she listens like she’s found her favorite series on Netflix.

Epilogue: A Perspective Refreshed

So, what’s the moral of the not-so-tragic telenovela of my 2019? Life, love, and everything in between are a mix of chaos, guava-sticky moments, and growth. Falling apart is inevitable at some point, but when it happens, it’s okay to let go of old blueprints and start messy, crooked, and deliciously over again.

Adjust, reboot, and eat the croquetas your mom made for you. Trust me, you’ll be fine.