The thing about disaster years is that they don’t send you a calendar reminder. No Google alerts pop up saying, “Hey, get ready, girl—this year’s about to be a hot mess.” For me, it started with a breakup so messy it could’ve fueled three Taylor Swift albums. Then, like a chain reaction from an ill-timed match strike, came the job I didn’t get, the friendship that quietly fizzled, and (because the universe wasn’t done) the busted water heater that turned my apartment into an unintentional wading pool.

For a while, I gave that year a name I probably can’t publish here, but let’s just say it rhymed with “clucking farce.” It was a year of quarantine-level loneliness but without a shared collective experience to pin it on—just me, fumbling through the emotional wreckage like I was in a rom-com’s blooper reel. But here’s the thing about things falling apart: They make you damn good at picking yourself up.

Here’s how I pieced myself back together—and what I learned along the way.

The Crash Landing: When Life Ghosts You

First, let’s talk about the breakup. It wasn’t dramatic, no weeping in the rain or smashed guitars. If anything, it was one of those “mutually respectful” splits that’s supposed to feel mature but instead feels like trying a decaf latte when you really wanted a triple shot. Mutual? Sure. Respectful? Of course. But it still left me eating cereal over the sink at midnight because washing a bowl felt like too much effort.

Looking back, the end had been brewing for a while. We had become comfortable in the wrong ways, like a pair of worn-out boots you keep wearing because you’re too broke to buy new ones. But once the relationship was over, I realized just how much of my identity had been tied to it. I’d been so busy being “us” that I forgot how to be “me.”

Cue the next big fall: the job rejection. A senior writer role at a national magazine was dangled in front of me, and when it didn’t materialize, I ugly-cried into my keyboard so hard the “delete” key stopped working. It wasn’t just about the job; it was about validation. The kind I used to get when I’d read my lyrics at open mic nights, and my dad would mouth, That’s my girl.

Turns out, losing validation is just as painful as losing love. And that’s how, in the span of three months, my personal and professional lives both crumbled like a dollar-store sugar cookie.

The Blueprint for Rebuilding

Once you realize your life’s in shreds, the first instinct is often to try duct-taping everything back together. But some things can’t be repaired as they were—they need to be rebuilt. So, that’s what I did. Slowly. Messily. With a lot of trial and error, and more late-night phone calls to my mom than I care to admit.

Here were my first steps:

1. Get Back to Basics (Even If It’s Nostalgic AF)

Somewhere between learning to share a Netflix account and splitting grocery lists, I’d stopped doing the things that made me me. So I went back to the basics. I dug out my old guitar from high school, the one with stickers slapped on the case like badges of honor. I started messing around with melodies again, including a truly terrible ode to my leaky water heater (working title: You’re Hot, Then You’re Cold). It didn’t matter if it was good or bad; it mattered that it was mine.

If you’re rebuilding after a personal “House of Cards” moment, think about the passions you forgot about while keeping everything else afloat. Go back to them, even if they’re rusty at first.

2. Reinvent Your Space

Okay, confession time. I hated my apartment. Pre-flood, it had been beige on beige—walls, carpet, vibe. But when life gives you water damage, you embrace the chaos. I tossed the Ikea furniture that always smelled like the warehouse and taught myself to wallpaper with the help of YouTube and, yes, a little wine. I created walls that matched my energy—fun, weird, imperfect. It wasn’t just redecorating; it was reclaiming my environment. Because when the world outside feels unsteady, having a space that feels like you is priceless.

3. Learn the Art of Saying “No”

Here’s something they don’t tell you about life falling apart: new opportunities will come, some shiny and tempting and some downright boring. And not all of them are worth your time. I learned how to say, “Thanks, but no,” without feeling like I owed anyone an apology. That included saying no to people who’d drained my energy pre-breakup and no to networking events that felt more “work” than “network.” Protecting my time and peace became a radical act of self-care.

The Love Department: Do I Really Have to Go Back Out There?

One of the trickiest parts of rebuilding was re-evaluating relationships, both old and potential new ones. Nashville is charming, sure, but it’s also small enough that every sidewalk cafe comes with a heightened risk of running into your ex.

At first, I swore off dating altogether. I made grandiose statements like, “I’m married to my self-discovery!” (which sounds great on Pinterest but wears thin at actual weddings when everyone keeps asking if you’re seeing someone). Eventually, though, I realized it wasn’t about avoiding love; it was about being more intentional with it.

When I dipped my toes back in the water, I approached connections differently:

  • Set Clear, Unapologetic Standards: I stopped bending like I was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Instead of contorting to fit someone’s world, I looked for people who complemented my own. There’s magic in standing firm in what you deserve.
  • Enjoy the Flirting “For Sport” Era: Some conversations can be lighthearted and fun without veering into lifelong commitment territory, and that’s okay. Give yourself permission to flirt like you’re in a Hallmark movie but with better dialogue.
  • Check the Energy, Not Just the Spark: Sparks are fun, but they can also burn. I started looking deeper at energy—how being with someone made me feel after the thrill of their Netflix password wore off.

Things I Won’t Do Again (And What I Will)

Here’s the thing about rebuilding: you won’t get it all right, at least not the first time. I’ve stumbled, made unwise investments (hello, overpriced bootcamp courses), and doubted myself many times since my annus horribilis.

But there’s also pride in making it through. In Dixie Chicks fashion, I’ve gone from singing “Wide Open Spaces” to owning my grounded, redefined ones. Things I refuse to do again include:

  • Saying “It’s fine” when it clearly is not.
  • Ignoring red flags because they’re wrapped in vintage flannel.
  • Apologizing for taking up space—in relationships, in rooms, or within my career.

What I will keep doing? Betting on myself, being selective with my time, and embracing the chaos when life inevitably throws its next curveball. Because after the year everything fell apart, I learned something surprising: there’s a quiet, hard-earned joy in picking up the pieces—and growing something beautiful from the cracks.