It all started with a banana peel. Not an actual peel, but a metaphorical one. One of those slapstick moments where life decides to pull an “America's Funniest Home Videos” prank on you, except the laugh track never kicks in. Mine came when I walked into my boss’s office, feeling innocent and important, only to be handed a box and a pity-laden “We have to let you go.” You know those memes where someone’s holding it together until they hit their car and start scream-crying into the steering wheel? That was me—except my 'car' was the Brooklyn subway platform, and my tearful breakdown probably gave some tourists an unforgettable New York experience.

Losing my job was just the beginning of the symphony of disasters that became my 2022. A month later, my six-year relationship unraveled over brunch. (Pancakes should never accompany heartbreak.) Add in a record-breaking streak of unpaid bills, and you’ve got yourself the perfect recipe for a quarter-life catastrophe. It wasn’t just a bad year—it was an everything-must-go sale of my sanity and self-esteem. But here’s the thing about rock bottom: it’s an improvised trampoline if you let it be.

Tip #1: Let Yourself Stare at the Ceiling

When life implodes, society tells you to “persevere,” “bounce back,” and other hustle-oriented buzzwords stitched on throw pillows. But you know what? Sometimes, you just need to lie on the floor, eat cold pizza straight from the box, and wallow. And that’s exactly what I did for weeks. Breakups and job losses come with a special kind of exhaustion. My parents called from Lagos, asking if everything was alright. “Of course!” I’d say, sending photos of myself smiling at random coffee shops—classic Lagosian survival tactic: put on appearances, keep moving. Truth was, I barely moved from my couch.

What saved me was leaning into my blues—giving myself permission to be human. With time, I noticed the fog didn’t lift all at once. It peeled back one layer at a time. For the first time in years, I asked myself, “What do I want right now?” Not next year. Not in someone else’s eyes. Just now. And sometimes, the answer was simply: binge an unhealthy amount of “Love Island” UK and cry over how even reality show “situationships” were doing better than mine.

Tip #2: Assemble Your Personal Avengers

The year my life fell apart wasn’t just a test of resilience; it was a spotlight on the friendships that held me together. One call to my best friend Ade, and minutes later, he was at my place, beer and jollof in hand, ready to stage a Netflix intervention. (“Bro, you’ve watched six seasons of ‘The Office,’ and it’s barely March. Let’s take a walk, yeah?”)

I made a mental note of the people who showed up without my even asking—the ones who quietly refilled my tank when I was running on fumes. And listen, community isn’t always soft hugs and kind affirmations. When I got stuck replaying conversations about my ex, my sister bluntly said, “Guy, you’re not the main character in their story anymore. Be the star in your own.”

Your crew matters. They’ll be the ones to remind you of your worth when you’re drowning in self-doubt. If you don’t have your Avengers ready, start small: reconnect with that friend who makes you laugh so hard you snort, or the one who texts you memes at 2 AM. Relationships don’t fix everything, but they do shore up the parts of you that feel unrepairable.

Tip #3: Rediscover What Fires You Up

After both love and career left me hanging, I realized I didn’t know who I was outside of those roles. It hit me in a truly cinematic moment while flipping through old notebooks I hadn’t touched since grad school. Somewhere between my half-written poems and unfinished story drafts, the Malik I’d buried started clawing his way back.

I dusted off that ancient Google Doc file titled “Short Stories You’ll Definitely Finish Someday.” Writing wasn’t just a hobby—it had been my backbone, my therapy, my rebellion against a chaotic world. Of course, my first attempts were trash. I once wrote a paragraph comparing heartbreak to burnt plantains (unsalvageable, messy, slightly funny in hindsight). But you know what? I kept going. Writing brought me joy—something I hadn’t let myself feel in months.

Find that thing that brings you joy—not “productive joy” for performance reviews or your Instagram aesthetic, but private, ugly, soul-filling joy. For me, it was returning to storytelling. For you, it might be baking excessively complicated desserts or training for an ultramarathon. (Okay, ultramarathons are for people scarier than me, but you get the idea.)

Tip #4: Learn to Laugh at the Irony

Honestly, the key to putting my life back together wasn’t in “manifesting better energy” or meticulously planning my comeback—it was in laughing at life’s absurdity.

When I finally opened myself up to dating again, the universe greeted me with a lineup of some of the most hilariously mismatched dates Brooklyn could offer. There was the guy who acted like a poet (he only wrote haikus about sneakers) and the one whose most attractive quality was his insistence on performing interpretive dance at dive bars. Did I wince? Yes. Was it content? Absolutely.

And that’s where growth secretly settles in: being able to laugh at the cringe, at yourself, at the ridiculousness that is letting strangers decide if they think your face is worth a swipe right. Humor isn’t a betrayal of your pain—it’s a survival tool sharper than therapy memes.

Tip #5: Remember Everything is Temporary

Here’s the thing no one tells you about rebuilding: progress is rarely Instagram-worthy. Most personal growth happens in unsexy increments, like wiping spilled cereal off your counter at 2 AM and realizing that, hey, you’re still standing.

I gradually found work again—not in the flashy, dream-job kind of way, but in gigs that gave me breathing room to write and pay my rent. I started going on dates that didn’t feel like auditions for The One™ but rather two humans trying to connect, however imperfectly. Life fell apart, and slowly, brick by brick, I put it back together into something better. Not because it’s perfect now (spoiler: it’s not), but because it’s mine.

The truth is your bad year doesn’t define you—it refines you. I’m not the Malik I was before 2022, but that’s a good thing. I’ve learned to own my story, cringe moments and all. And listen, if you’ve ever stumbled into the chaos of your own “banana peel” year, know this: you’ve already survived the hardest part. What comes next? That’s up to you. And maybe, just maybe, there’s cold pizza and a fresh start waiting for you on the other side.