The sky wasn’t just falling—it felt like it had already crashed, splintered into a million pieces, and left me picking through the wreckage. My year of chaos started in January, when my long-term relationship ended with the precision of a Jenga tower collapse. By spring, my bank account was emptier than a Charleston oyster shell after a summer backyard boil. And by the time fall rolled around, my circle of friends had dwindled to one—a cousin who mostly sent me memes about Mercury retrograde. Spoiler alert: Mercury wasn’t the problem.

I like to call it “The Year Everything Fell Apart.” But, as someone raised by Gullah storytellers, I know full well that broken things often hold the seeds of something new. So here’s what I learned while patching myself back together after everything went sideways—and, spoiler again, it’s not just about survival. It’s about thriving with a little humor, a lot of self-reflection, and a touch of stubborn Southern resilience. Let me take you through it.

1. The Breakup Breakdown (And the Realization That Hit Me Harder Than the Heartbreak)

The first big crack in my year came on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday night. My partner of five years declared over the remnants of a lackluster takeout pad Thai dinner: “I’m just not happy anymore.” Y’all, the audacity of delivering existential crises alongside soggy noodles should be illegal.

At first, I did everything the go-to breakup scripts told me not to do. I begged, bargained, and even threw in a “but we’re building a life together!” for good measure. When he moved out two weeks later, taking his favorite throw blanket (that I bought) and half our shared spices, it hit me: It wasn’t the relationship I was mourning. It was the stability and identity I’d built around “us.”

Without that anchor, I felt adrift. Who was I outside of that relationship? It wasn’t pretty at first—I ate so much Talenti gelato that my trash can looked like a Pinterest ad gone wrong. But, eventually, I decided to lean into the discomfort. Like my Grandma Cora always said: “A sweetgrass basket doesn’t weave itself, and neither do the seasons of your life.” A breakup’s an ending, sure—but it’s also where something begins.

Takeaway: Heartbreak will strip away what no longer serves you. Instead of scrambling to tape it back together, focus on what you have the power to rebuild. Buy the new spices. Replace the throw blanket. Let go of “we” to rediscover “me.”

2. Financial Fiascos and Learning to Start Small

If heartbreak was the first domino of my disastrous year, my finances were the dramatic second act. Splitting bills alone hit different, and I quickly realized my spending habits had been... optimistic, to say the least.

After a particularly dire moment where my debit card was declined buying $12 candles (they smelled like magnolias, okay?), I knew I had to reevaluate. For inspiration, I thought back to family summers in Charleston. My grandparents didn’t have much, but they stretched every dollar with ingenuity and care. Lowcountry staples like red rice and black-eyed peas weren’t just food—they were lessons in abundance, tradition, and making something wonderful out of what you had.

So, I made what my bank account dictated a necessity into a new practice: I embraced simplicity. Instead of splurging on Saturday brunches, I hosted potlucks. I swapped retail therapy for thrift stores, where I found treasures that carried stories of their own. And slowly, the weight of financial stress lightened. Giving up excess didn’t feel like deprivation—I was making space for more meaningful things.

Takeaway: You don’t need wealth to live richly. Lean on resourcefulness, community, and tradition, and you’ll find abundance where you least expect it.

3. From Friendly Fire to Finding My People Again

After the breakup, I realized something heartbreaking: the friendships I thought were unshakable weren’t exactly what I’d built them up to be. A lot of friends drifted—and that stung, especially when I didn’t feel like I had much else to lean on.

But then I began a slow realization: sometimes relationships, even platonic ones, aren’t designed to last forever—and that’s okay. My grandparents often told stories about how the tides of the Atlantic dictated so much of their lives: the harvests, the migrations, even the kinds of stories Gullah fishermen shared while out on their boats. Seasons change; tides pull in and out.

Rather than clinging to what no longer fit, I made space for new people to drift into my life. I started volunteering with a community storytelling group in my neighborhood, hiking with an outdoors club, and hosting informal study groups for folks curious about Gullah culture. It felt awkward and vulnerable at first, showing up as myself—a little bit bruised and out of practice—but I soon found people who saw me for who I was now, not who I’d been before. Rebuilding connection was hard work, but it was worth every uncomfortable moment.

Takeaway: Friendships are like tides—they ebb, but they’ll also flow if you take the time to nurture new connections. Show up with an open heart, even if you feel uncertain.

4. Coping with Chaos (AKA Laughing Through the Hard Stuff)

If there’s one thing 2023 taught me, it’s that sometimes all you can do is laugh. After a week where my car broke down, my work presentation got canceled last-minute, and I accidentally shrunk my favorite dress in the wash (why do I still believe in “hand wash cold”?), humor became a survival tool.

There’s a kind of healing you can only find in absurdity. I thought about the first time I made Gullah cornbread from scratch using no recipe, just vibes and verbal instructions from Auntie Mae. It came out so dense we used it as a doorstop for a week, but the memory still makes me smile. These days, when life throws me a storm, I remind myself: You’ve laughed through worse, babe. Now go handle it.

Takeaway: Reality is ridiculous sometimes, and laughing at how silly it all is can be incredibly powerful. Embrace the absurd and use it to keep going.

5. Finding Grace in the Slow Rebuild

By the end of the year, I didn’t have everything figured out—far from it. But I had something better: peace. It didn’t come bouncing in all at once like a big romantic Hollywood moment. It tiptoed in gradually, in between quiet walks by the marsh, Sunday dinners cooked for one, and morning journaling sessions where I allowed myself to dream again.

Through patience, I learned to let go of perfection and embrace growth. Sure, there was still work to do (don’t even ask about my shower grout), but that became part of the beauty. It’s a little like the sweetgrass baskets my grandma talked about. They start with a single, unremarkable strand, growing fuller and stronger with every loop and weave.

Takeaway: Growth doesn’t have to be tidy or fast. It happens one strand at a time, in quiet moments and joyful small steps forward. Trust in the process—it’s taking you somewhere worthwhile.

6. Unbroken, But Better

So, what happened in The Year Everything Fell Apart? I lived. I learned. And, somehow, I laughed a lot more than I thought I would. If you find yourself standing among broken pieces—whether it’s a relationship, a dream, or just the mismatched mess of daily life—know this: there’s beauty and possibility in the rebuilding. Lean into your people, your purpose, and even your mistakes.

Because sometimes, the best stories don’t come from the years where everything goes perfectly. They come from the years when it doesn’t—and you discover what it means to craft something new, completely on your terms.