I used to think I was unflappable. The kind of person who could roll with life’s surprises, like an indie film hero shrugging off chaos with a knowing smirk and a vintage leather jacket. But like all good indie films, life threw me a plot twist I didn’t see coming—a wild combination of heartbreak, self-doubt, and existential questioning. Spoiler alert: I survived. But not without some serious growth, a lot of journaling, and one particularly disastrous knitting project.

We’re diving into the mess because, let’s face it: nothing bonds us like shared humanity and a little schadenfreude. Buckle up.

The Breakup That Broke Me

Let’s start in the world of romance, because what’s a good identity crisis without a breakup that feels ripped straight from a country ballad? A few summers ago, I was in what I’d generously describe as a "situationship," though let’s be honest—it was a full-blown attempt to duct-tape two very incompatible people together. We had all the classic rom-com pitfalls: misaligned communication styles, different visions of the future, and that hauntingly familiar chemistry that keeps you holding on far past the expiration date.

So when it ended? Oh, it ended hard. Picture me binge-watching “Parks and Recreation” while debating if frozen taquitos technically count as self-care. By day, I showed up to my nonprofit job, all smiles and carefully curated Spotify playlists to power through grant proposals. But by night? Let’s just say the only thing thriving was my Grubhub search history.

If you’ve ever had your heart handed back to you in a million shredded pieces, you know the drill. Your brain becomes a master playlist of “What if?” questions, punctuated by a relentless loop of sad indie tracks and an uncanny ability to find meaning in your horoscope. (“Venus in retrograde—obviously! That’s why my life’s imploding!”)

The Layer Cake of Survival

Here’s the thing about surviving your toughest moments: it rarely feels linear. It’s not a clean arc where you wake up one day and suddenly feel healed. For me, it looked more like a layer cake of emotions—grief on the bottom, topped with anger, sadness, a spicy sprinkling of vindication, and finally the sweet frosting of “I deserve better.” You don’t eat that cake in one sitting. You nibble at it, often while crying into a coffee cup and Googling “how to reinvent yourself.”

Step 1: Let Yourself Wallow (For a Hot Minute)

The first layer of my metaphorical cake? Wallowing. I gave myself permission to feel all the things: sadness, rage, the occasional burst of misplaced jealousy. Let yourself do this. Cry a little. Cry a lot. Create a very dramatic Spotify playlist called something like “The Storm and the Fury” (look, we’ve all done it). The key is not to marinate in this phase forever. Wallowing is step one—not a permanent residence.

Step 2: Commit the Ultimate Cliché: Try Something New

I know, I KNOW. Every breakup article tells you this, but hear me out. During this mess of a moment, I bought a pair of knitting needles. Did I think, “This is going to be my new calling?” No. But the act of making something—loop by loop, stitch by stitch—reminded me of something profound: Growth is slow. Progress is imperfect. And that’s okay.

Fun fact: The scarf I attempted ended up looking like a warped piece of string cheese. No one will wear it, but honestly, the attempt was the point.

Step 3: Reconnect With the World

One of the best things about living in Austin is its endless supply of community: drum circles at Zilker Park, storytelling nights at The Highball, food truck gatherings that involve way more queso than one person should consume. I started saying yes to invites I’d usually decline, even when my Netflix queue called to me like a siren. A friend invited me to a dance class. Another dragged me to trivia night. Bit by bit, I remembered something critical: The world doesn’t revolve around your heartbreak. And it shouldn’t.

The Unexpected Revelation

You know those moments in life where something incredibly mundane cracks you wide open? My moment was in the middle of the cereal aisle. Six months post-breakup, I was picking between Frosted Flakes and Raisin Bran, and suddenly it hit me: I was fine. Like, really fine. I was smiling at a toddler in a shopping cart. I had plans for Saturday that didn’t involve a duvet cocoon. I knew what I wanted for dinner, and it didn’t involve regret or decisions made by my microwave.

The revelation wasn’t dramatic—it wasn’t set to a sweeping soundtrack or accompanied by any kind of cinematic lighting. It felt...still. Simple. And sometimes, that’s what survival looks like.

Hard-Won Takeaways (Seriously, Write These Down)

  1. You’re Allowed to Be a Hot Mess
    There’s no “correct” way to deal with the hard stuff. Cry, ugly laugh, eat an entire loaf of sourdough in one sitting. Whatever your process looks like, honor it. Growth can be messy and beautiful all at once.

  2. Self-Care Doesn’t Have to Be Cute
    Forget Instagram’s idea of bubble baths and perfect brunch spreads. Real self-care might look like vacuuming your car or setting a single boundary with a toxic friend. It might just be doing what gets you through the next hour. That’s enough.

  3. Your Community Can Be a Lifeline
    Whether it’s your best friends or the guy who leads your weekly yoga class, remember: Connection is a powerful salve. People want to show up for you. Let them.

  4. Healing Happens in Tiny, Unseen Steps
    Healing isn’t an event—it's a handful of quiet choices. Saying no when you need rest. Saying yes to trying again. Picking the knitting needles back up, even if your scarf won’t make Vogue’s front page.

Your Comeback Story Is Yours to Write

If you’re in the muddle right now, I see you. I’ve been you. And let me tell you this: You’re a lot stronger than you think you are. Life’s hardest moments can feel endless in the moment, but your survival isn’t just possible—it’s inevitable. The mess you’re standing in right now? It’s temporary. And someday—probably in the middle of the cereal aisle—it’ll hit you: You didn’t just survive. You thrived.

It’s your story. Take the pen, and write your next chapter. You’ve got this.