The thing about bottoming out? You don’t realize what’s happening until you’re staring at the mess with a churro in one hand and a tissue in the other, trying to figure out what went so spectacularly wrong. For me, that year was 2018. My life didn’t just fall apart—it salsa danced itself into chaos. It was the year of heartbreak, job burnout, a family fallout, and a pet beta fish who passed away out of pure sympathy. I was a mess. But here’s the kicker: it turned out to be the year I learned how to put myself back together, one painfully small step at a time.

When Everything Hits at Once (And You’re in Pajamas)

It started with a breakup—a swan-dive straight into ruined plans and unanswered questions. Think rom-com meets telenovela, but without the charming reconciliation montage. My partner of three years had “found himself,” which apparently meant living his best life without me. The breakup was rough, but I kept telling myself it was fine. That lasted about two weeks, until I realized I’d lost not only my relationship but an entire shared friend group and the brunch spots we’d staked out as “ours.” Forget losing the spark; I’d lost my Sunday pancake crew.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, my job hit me with a metaphorical slap to the face. I’d been grinding away as a reporter, covering Houston’s vibrant culture and community, but it seemed like no one noticed. Promotions went to everyone but me. I started second-guessing everything: Was I bad at pitching stories? Did I laugh wrong at the holiday party? Was my boss secretly Team Pancake Ex?

Somewhere in the middle of all this, an argument with a family member fractured what had always felt unbreakable. If you’ve ever yelled at someone you love during a Christmas potluck and then had to sit across from them awkwardly while passing the tamales, you know what I mean.

To top it all off, my poor beta fish, Alejandro, floated to the surface of his tank one Thursday morning. I cried like he’d been my therapy fish (spoiler: he basically was). It felt dramatic, ridiculous even. But when life is unraveling, even the smallest threads feel like massive losses.

Putting it Back Together, Start with the Ugly Bits

Somewhere between the ugly crying and the five-hour "Parks and Recreation" binge sessions, it hit me: no knight on horseback (or an Indeed recruiter with my dream job) was going to fix this. So I decided, very reluctantly, to be my own rescuer. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t glamorous.

Step 1: Get Comfortable with Grief: No one warns you about the identity crisis that comes after a breakup or a major fallout. For months, every song, Insta post, and coffee shop felt like a memory curated to taunt me. I had to let myself mourn—not just the people I’d lost, but the version of myself tied up in those relationships. I journaled messy, unfiltered thoughts Cinderella-style (long before midnight). I took long walks with no destination. I cried in my car to the soundtrack of Bad Bunny, unapologetically doing the ugly cry.

Step 2: Redefine “Accomplishments”: When getting out of bed before 10 a.m. feels like climbing Mount Everest, small victories are everything. I started setting micro-goals: buy fresh cilantro instead of the sad dried kind, call an old friend just to ramble, write 200 words of a short story even if no one else would read it. Big-picture success? Not in the cards yet. But daily wins? Oh, I could swing that.

Step 3: Rediscover Joy. Remember how much fun you had before life got all...complicated? I didn’t. I had to reintroduce myself to that girl. I threw on salsa music while cooking dinner, even if it was just cereal (yes, cereal can have dramatic flair). When Beyoncé came on at a bar, I danced like I wasn’t embarrassed. Slowly, joy came back, like a text from an old friend you didn’t know you needed.

Lessons in Owning Your Chaos

By the time the dust had settled (and Alejandro had been replaced with a thriving pothos plant named Antonio), I realized I’d learned more in that messy, broken year than in any moment of smooth sailing. Don't get me wrong: I don’t wish heartbreak, burnout, or family arguments on anyone, but collapsing forced me to get real with myself—no filter, no pretense.

Here’s what stuck with me:

  • It’s okay to rebuild slowly: Nobody’s rushing you to be a finished product, no matter how polished your Instagram feed implies. No one knows what they’re doing. I guarantee even your smug co-worker with the perfect wardrobe has cried over noodles at least twice this year.

  • You don’t have to do it alone, but no one can rescue you either: Lean on your people, whether it’s a friend, therapist, or your mom who insists that sage tea will fix everything (pro tip: it won’t, but it’s comforting). Just don’t expect someone else to fix your problems. You’re the star of this novella, after all.

  • You’re allowed to laugh in the chaos: A shameless amount of my recovery came from finding the humor in my mess—like realizing my ex couldn’t tell the difference between salsa and merengue. Sometimes, we just deserve a laugh.

The Year That Didn’t Break Me

Looking back, 2018 isn’t a year I want to relive, but in some weird way, I’m kind of grateful for it. It stripped away all the scaffolding, leaving me with nothing but myself—a messy, complicated, figuring-it-out self. And here’s the thing (brace yourself for cheesiness): that was enough. That version of me became the foundation to build something better, stronger, and finally, authentic.

So, if you’re in the middle of your year of falling apart, know this: it’s okay to be the person sobbing in their living room with a churro as your emotional support. Just don’t underestimate your ability to rebuild something beautiful—mess, tears, and all.