I’m not proud of the way I handled November 17th. Or January 3rd. Or, let’s be honest, most of March. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind to the year everything fell apart.

It started with one text message: “Hey, we need to talk.” If you’ve ever received this dreaded phrase, you know it’s rarely followed by good news. In my case, it was the final note in the slow symphony of a relationship unraveling. By the time the conversation was over, I was newly single, sitting in my truck under the familiar canopy of pines, trying not to cry while a winter storm rolled in.

From there, the cracks in my world widened. My parents decided to sell their lodge—a place that had always felt like the anchor of my wandering life. My best friend relocated to the East Coast, chasing a career dream like something out of a Hallmark movie (except the part where their Tahoe-bound bestie gets tragically left behind). Oh, and just for fun, I tore my ACL trying to “recapture my youth” on a pair of aging skis. Spoiler alert: you can’t relive the glory days if your knees aren’t on board.

By the time spring arrived, I was officially in my flop era. But here’s the thing about implosions: sometimes, they clear the ground for something new to take root.

Chapter 1: The Art of Falling Apart

Let’s be real—nobody tells you how exhausting a breakup can be. It’s not just the crying-in-your-car phase (although there was plenty of that). It’s realizing how deep someone has become intertwined in your every routine. Burrito night on Thursdays felt hollow. Morning walks near the lake turned into long treks filled with overthinking and way too many “Ben & Jerry’s” analogies.

For someone who had built a life surrounded by epic mountains and endless skies, I suddenly felt claustrophobic. That’s where I made my first mistake: I tried to out-hike my feelings. I would lace up my boots and hit Yosemite or Desolation Wilderness with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel, as if one more summit would fix the ache in my chest. Spoiler alert: emotions don’t work that way. They’re more like your grandma’s sticky toffee pudding—you’ve just got to sit with the heaviness for a while.

But eventually, something shifted. The heavy fog didn’t entirely lift, but it thinned enough to let light peek through. I started noticing the small things again: The quiet magic of a sunrise reflected on snow, the humor of marmots fighting over a granola bar wrapper like it was a Michelin-star meal. It was still messy—I was still messy—but I realized that “falling apart” isn’t a destination. It’s a launchpad.

Chapter 2: Mending with Intention

It’s one thing to let time heal you (and time does help—shoutout to its MVP status). But at some point, you have to actively get back into the driver’s seat. For me, that meant doing something I’d put off for years: taking stock of who I was when no one was looking.

I’ve heard people joke that a breakup is like spring-cleaning your life. If that’s true, then my life was an absolute garage sale nightmare—full of emotionally dusty baggage and some questionable habits I’d shoved into the corners of my personality. I realized that in my last relationship, I’d become an expert in compromise, often shelving my own interests to keep the peace. It wasn’t totally her fault—I volunteered for the job—but it left me wondering: When did I stop being the curious, tree-hugging, slightly dorky guy who talks to chipmunks in my spare time?

So, I pulled out my metaphorical broom and started cleaning house, literally and figuratively. I set new habits for myself:

  • Solo Dinner Dates: Every Friday night, I cooked something I’d always wanted to attempt but never had the courage to. Risotto? Burned one batch but nailed the second. Kung Pao Cauliflower? Okay, mostly edible.
  • Unplugged Mornings: I left my phone behind on these early walks and let my mind wander instead of scrolling through social media. (Pro tip: The sunrise doesn’t need a filter, folks.)
  • Reconnecting with Old Passions: That year, I spent more time outdoors than I had in a decade. Not just in a “conquer a trail” way but in a relaxed, days-spent-journaling-beside-the-lake kind of way.

By doing these small things, I began to recognize myself again. I wasn’t here to impress someone or fit into a mold—I was just living for the joy of it.

Chapter 3: Building the New

The other undeniably awkward part of pulling yourself together? It’s sort of like reconstructing Ikea furniture with no manual. You know, one of those situations where you’re staring at two mismatched wooden planks, a bag of bolts, and contemplating your entire existence. That’s what it felt like to figure out what was next for me after my year of chaos.

When life pivots, you get two options: clinging to the past or building something new. And while I spent a fair few weeks wallowing in nostalgia (cue multiple re-listens of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours”), I eventually started making bolder choices.

First, I pitched new freelance pieces to publications beyond my comfort zone. It wasn’t easy to see myself beyond “the guy who writes about trees,” but apparently, people do want to read about finding love and healing heartbreak under the stars. Second, I said “yes” to weird opportunities instead of overthinking them to death. That’s how I ended up teaching a group of six-year-olds how to make pinecone birdfeeders at a local community center. Turns out, seeing kids light up over something as simple as peanut butter and birdseed can fix a surprising amount of inner angst.

And finally, I learned to lean into connection again—not just in the romantic sense, but across the people who make up the constellation of my life. I rekindled friendships, reached out to family more often, and even learned to reciprocate the love my goofy dog, Cedar, so freely gives every day.

The Takeaway: Falling Upward

The year everything fell apart wasn’t my most photogenic, polished year. But looking back, it was the season that taught me resilience isn’t just about enduring the rough patches. It’s about being curious enough and brave enough to see what blooms in their place.

So, if you’re currently swirling through your own year of chaos, here’s my advice:

  1. Cry in Your Car: Seriously, just let it out. No one’s judging.
  2. Take Stock: What old dreams or interests have you been shelving for too long? Dust them off, even if they feel silly.
  3. Get Outside: Whether it’s a full-blown hike or just a morning stroll, fresh air does wonders for the soul.
  4. Embrace Change: Your life isn’t an Ikea instruction manual. It’s okay if the pieces take time to feel like they fit again.

In the end, the best thing about things falling apart is that they give you the chance to rebuild something stronger, stranger, and, if you let it be, even better than before.