Sometimes life doesn’t unravel so much as it explodes, leaving you in the debris wondering if you’re ever going to make sense of it all. For me, that year was 2017. I’ve often thought of it as the year when everything went sideways—a country song set to the backdrop of the Rockies. All that was missing was a runaway horse and a whiskey bottle rolling off the bar. But spoiler alert: just like a good ol’ Western, this story has a redemption arc. Stick with me.

Let’s rewind. Picture a guy standing on a mountaintop one day, surveying the view like a man who thinks he’s got everything figured out. Now imagine that same guy a year later, sitting in a diner at 2 a.m., eating cold French fries, and googling “how to move on when everything sucks.” That’s where the world found me in March of 2017. Broken relationship. Career at a standstill. Bank account on life support. The trifecta of adult crisis. Oh, and while this dramatic unraveling was going on, my dog, Gus, chewed up the last pair of boots I could afford.

In hindsight, that wasn’t a year—it was a bad country album. But what happened next is why I’m writing this.

Chapter 1: When the Dust Settles

Everyone tells you life is about peaks and valleys. But what they don’t tell you is that, sometimes, it feels like the valley is 100 miles wide, and that little sign reading “Trail Up Ahead” keeps getting pushed farther into the distance. The first thing I learned? You don’t have to solve everything all at once. You just need to keep moving.

Back in Telluride, I’d spend hours hiking aimlessly through familiar trails. There’s something oddly comforting about walking paths you’ve known since you were a kid. The woods don’t ask you about your failures—they just exist, steady and unchanged. One afternoon, trekking along a ridge near Bridal Veil Falls, I realized something simple but profound: I had spent months focusing on all the things I’d lost, but this land—these roots—were always here. It was the kind of wake-up call that doesn’t whisper so much as slap you across the face.

Growth doesn’t happen while you’re wallowing. It starts when you stand up, dust yourself off, and take one tiny, stubborn step forward. Maybe that’s why I began journaling again, just like I used to do when I was a kid. I wrote about mundane things—the way the light hit the river in the morning, the sound of a hawk overhead. In trying to rediscover what grounded me, I found a little hope. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Chapter 2: The Divorce of Dreams

Okay, I wasn’t married, but breaking up with someone after four years together feels more like divorce than you’d think. We weren’t just ending a relationship—we were unraveling a life we’d built piece by piece. The Spotify playlists. The inside jokes. The dream of getting a cabin together near Ridgway. Poof. All gone. And the worst part of all? The illusion that you can hold someone’s love together just by being good enough.

Pro tip from your friend Gray: Don’t linger on what went wrong forever. It’s like poking a campfire long after the flames are out—you’ll never find warmth, only ashes. Instead, I asked myself a simple but hard question: Who am I when no one is looking? And boy, that was scary. Turns out I’d poured so much of myself into “us” that I hadn’t spent much time building “me.”

So, I made a decision that felt a little crazy. I got out of town. I drove my beat-up truck south and spent an entire month volunteering on a historical restoration project in Arizona. Picture this: me, hammering away at an old wooden barn, sweat pouring, surrounded by strangers. There’s a power in throwing yourself into a project that doesn’t serve your ego. Working with my hands wasn’t just therapy—it was a reminder that I am capable of creating something lasting, even when my life felt impermanent.

Chapter 3: Life on the Other Side of Ruin

Here’s where I need to burst a bubble: No, I didn’t wake up one day euphoric to start my life over from scratch. Fixing a life isn’t a movie montage. It’s like rebuilding an old fence—slow, frustrating, and full of splinters. But piece by piece, you start to reconstruct the boundaries of who you are and what you really want.

I took a hard look at my career, which had been floundering like a goldfish outside its bowl. I loved writing, but freelancing travel blurbs wasn’t cutting it. So, I started teaching part-time at the local community college, combining my love of storytelling with my knowledge of history. And wouldn’t you know it? Watching students discover tales of their hometown for the first time lit something up in me. It was like someone tossed a spark into embers I thought had long gone cold.

And there was one more thing: Gus. Remember my boot-chewing mutt? Somewhere in his chaotic puppy energy and unshakable loyalty, I found an anchor. Dogs don’t care about your existential crises; they just need their daily walk and a belly rub or two. Taking care of Gus forced me out of my head and into the moment. Turns out, sometimes healing is as simple as throwing a tennis ball till your arm gets sore.

Chapter 4: Lessons Learned in the Rubble

Looking back, I can say this: 2017 was the year I learned the art of turning setbacks into stepping stones. Here are a few truths I picked up along the way:

  • You’re more resilient than you think. Bad days, bad months, or even bad years don’t define you. What defines you is how you choose to respond. Fall apart, sure—but then rally, even if it’s messy.
  • Discomfort grows you. If life feels idyllic and perfect, you’re probably not growing much. Pain is the unwanted but necessary companion to change.
  • Find joy in the little things. Whether it’s hiking, playing guitar, or giving your dog an enthusiastic belly rub, small bursts of joy can keep you afloat when everything else feels uncertain.
  • Know when to let go. Clinging to what’s already left you—whether a relationship, an opportunity, or an old version of your life—doesn’t honor who you’re becoming. Let it go, partner. The best trails are the ones up ahead.

How It All Came Together

By the time 2018 rolled around, I wasn’t some enlightened, new-age guru grinning on a meditation cushion. I was just me—still stumbling, but stronger with every step. Life doesn’t “fix itself” so much as it hands you smaller and smaller puzzles to solve over time. And boy, when you finally start seeing progress, when the stakes don’t feel life-or-death every second? That’s worth every bit of heartbreak, splintered fence post, and midnight fry session.

Today, life looks a little like this: lectures about frontier towns, trail rides with Gus, journaling whenever the mood strikes me, and sipping a coffee as the sun rises over the mountains. I still trip over myself, of course—because that’s part of the gig. But there’s peace in knowing I'm grounded in who I am, and excited for what’s next.

Because that’s the real lesson of falling apart: When you start putting yourself back together, you get to decide how you’ll look this time around. And hey, isn’t that kind of empowering?