The Year Everything Fell Apart (And How I Put It Back Together)

It started with a cracked windshield. Which, looking back, feels almost poetic—an omen designed to warn me that visibility was about to get real murky. By January of that year, my life had become a collection of tiny, sharp fragments. A breakup, a career setback, a friendship implosion, and a leaky apartment ceiling all arrived like uninvited guests on my emotional bingo card. And if you’ve ever tried playing bingo in a Las Vegas casino, you know how hard it is to win when the odds are stacked against you.

But this isn't where the story ends. It’s where it begins. Because sometimes, falling apart—really, gloriously falling apart—is exactly what you need to rebuild something new.

Act One: The Breakup That Broke Me—and Saved Me

When my boyfriend and I called it quits, it wasn’t dramatic. There was no “Don’t you ever call me again!” moment, no saucy, wine-fueled kiss-off text. It was quieter than that, like the curtain falling at the end of a less-than-stellar play. We both knew it was time. The relationship had become more performance than partnership, like a Vegas Elvis impersonator playing a gig where no one claps.

Still, that kind of quiet ending can hit just as hard as the big, splashy ones. When you've shared your life with someone—coffee-stained mornings, Netflix arguments, the occasional “Oh God, why did we think Ikea furniture was a good idea?” moments—you don’t just lose a person. You lose a version of yourself, the one that only existed in your togetherness. For weeks, I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.

But one frigid February night (well, as frigid as Vegas ever gets), I stood in my tiny bathroom with its bad 1970s lighting and realized: I missed me. Not us. With one of those dramatic, mirror-staring moments straight out of a rom-com, I decided I wanted to get my spark back—the one that used to light up my world long before I gave someone else the match.

Act Two: The Job That Got Away—and Taught Me Resilience

As if the breakup wasn’t enough, I also got passed over for a magazine editor job I’d been dreaming about. The rejection email hit my inbox with the precision of a dart hitting a balloon. “We were impressed with your qualifications, but we’ve chosen to go in another direction,” read the second-worst breakup note of my year. (The first had only been three lines. Brutal.)

I won’t lie to you—I spiraled. For days, I ate boxed macaroni and cheese on the couch like some sort of sad carb witch. My Netflix algorithm stopped recommending uplifting documentaries and started pushing me toward crime dramas, the ones where everyone dies dramatically in the desert. (Relatable content when you live next to Red Rock Canyon, FYI.)

But here's the thing: failure smacks you in the face because it wants your attention. When I finally peeled myself off the couch, I started freelancing with a vengeance. I pitched stories I never would’ve dared to pitch before and said “Yes” to assignments that scared me, even ones that pushed me outside of my comfort zone. It wasn’t the dream job, sure. But it was MY dream—reshaped, rebuilt, reimagined. And that proved enough.

Act Three: The Leaky Ceiling (And Why It Matters)

If you’ve never woken up to the sound of steady dripping and thought, “Wait, is my roof crying or am I?,” then let me tell you—it’s a real metaphor for your life crumbling in real-time. Turns out, the apartment I’d loved for its kitschy charm (and rent I could actually afford!) wasn't great at keeping out rain. A pipe burst in the ceiling above my kitchen, and suddenly my quiet sanctuary was a war zone of buckets, mildew, and a landlord who ghosted like we were on the worst first date of all time.

I took it as another sign from the universe—though by this point, I assume the universe was getting creative in its attempts to keep me humble. This would’ve been the perfect time to pack up and move. But instead, inspired by my newfound clarity, I decided the leaks weren’t my excuse to run. They were my chance to fix something—literally and metaphorically.

I learned how to patch drywall (thanks, YouTube!), invested in some chic-but-cheap rugs to cover water stains, and tapped into friends who helped me spruce up the mess with plants and optimism. Somehow, fixing my apartment became a stand-in for fixing myself. Slow, steady improvements turned my space back into a home—and gave me back that sense of control I hadn’t felt all year.

Lessons From the Rubble

If you know anyone who’s ever worked in Vegas entertainment, you know that the Show Must Go On mentality is drilled into us at a young age. But there’s something freeing—empowering, even—about learning when to pause the show, step off the stage, and rework the script entirely. Here’s what I learned about rebuilding after the year everything went sideways:

  1. Allow Yourself Time to Mourn (Whatever It Is). Breakups, failures, leaky ceilings—they’re all losses that deserve to be grieved. Pretending you're fine when you're not creates a pressure to fast-track your healing, and that’s like trying to superglue a broken vase without letting it dry. Let yourself fall apart for a moment. You’ll put yourself back together stronger.

  2. Rediscover Joy in the Smallest Things. Whether it’s lighting your favorite candle, making a playlist that feels like a warm hug, or binge-watching comfort TV (“Gilmore Girls” will always be my go-to), leaning into small joys reminds you life doesn’t have to sparkle to still be worthwhile.

  3. Get Comfortable Doing Things Alone. I went to dinner by myself for the first time that year. And yes, I felt like everyone in the restaurant was staring at me—until I realized no one actually cared. Want to know what’s even better? Once you learn to enjoy your own company, other people feel like an enhancement to your life, not the foundation of it.

  4. Ask for Help. This was one of the harder ones for me, but having friends step in to help me redecorate, vent about my ex, or proofread an article draft reminded me it’s OK to lean on others. Sometimes, the strongest version of yourself is actually the one who knows when to let someone else carry the load.

A Glimmering Takeaway

If I learned anything that year, it’s this: you don’t NEED to have your life together all the time. In fact, the messy seasons often teach us things that the “perfect” ones never could. And when you finally step back and take it all in, you might just see that those cracks in the foundation earned you something even better—a life that’s not flawless, but beautifully, authentically yours. Kind of like the Strip at sunset. Underneath all the flash, there’s something real waiting to shine.