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

There’s a moment in every disaster movie when the protagonist stops, looks around at the rubble, and thinks: Well, this is bad. That’s how I felt during “The Year.” You know the kind—12 months that blow through your life like a category five hurricane, leaving your plans shredded and your emotional scaffolding teetering. My “Year Everything Fell Apart” came in layers, like a very unappetizing lasagna of misadventures: a relationship meltdown, career uncertainty, and even a surprise dental emergency (because, apparently, heartbreak comes with a side of cavity fillings).

But before you reach for the metaphorical popcorn to watch me dive into despair, I’ll let you in on a secret: I survived. Not only that, I rebuilt, learned, and maybe even flourished a little. This is the story of how I picked up my pieces—with a few laughs along the way.

Act 1: When the Universe Said, “Hold My Wine”

The relationship blow-up was the opening act. After three years of what I thought was “Netflix Original romance,” my partner and I dissolved into a split so messy it made Taylor Swift lyrics look restrained. It wasn’t one big fight; it was more like death by a thousand tiny misunderstandings. Think: disagreements over Spotify playlists, mornings too quiet to ignore, and the sharp realization that while he wanted a dog, I wasn’t sure I could even commit to watering plants.

The breakup itself was unceremonious. We sat across from each other in a café—Montreal’s best croissants betraying me as I choked on my tears. When he walked away, it felt like someone had deleted an entire section of my Google calendar titled “future.” Suddenly, all those plans you submerge yourself in—travel, holidays, lazy Sunday afternoons—evaporated. My heart hurt, obviously, but so did my pride.

And just as I was gearing up to wallow à la Bridget Jones, the universe decided to kick me while I was down. I got news that the publishing house I worked for was downsizing (read: my job with it), my credit card hit a limit that would make Carrie Bradshaw blush, and to top it all off, I cracked a molar on a stale macaron. Truly, the hits just kept coming.

Act 2: Falling Apart, But Make It Fashion

Here’s something no one tells you about rock bottom: It’s surprisingly democratic. Everyone’s invited—your heartbreak, your self-doubt, your unwashed yoga pants. I spent the next few weeks in full Main Character Meltdown mode: crying sporadically, overanalyzing every shade of blue on my ex’s Instagram stories, and eating instant ramen because the emotional labor of grocery shopping was far too ambitious.

But then came the existential turning point: my mother’s voice in my head saying, “Ma chérie, you can cry or you can sweep, but you have to do something.” (Mothers, as it turns out, are human fortune cookies.) I figured if I couldn’t control the chaos in my head, I could at least tackle the chaos in my apartment. So, I started cleaning—Marie Kondo style. Clothes, books, random ex-boyfriend paraphernalia—I decluttered with the fervor of someone trying to evict their past. Fun fact: nothing dampens nostalgia for a relationship like throwing out their forgotten tube socks.

Act 3: A Collection of Lessons (In No Particular Order)

As my environment cleared, so did my mind, and I slowly realized something: falling apart isn’t permanent. It’s more like a creative destruction project—the trick is figuring out how to rebuild better. Here’s what I learned in the process:

  1. Solitude Isn’t Always Lonely
    Montreal has always been my soulmate: the music of its streets, its bilingual rhythm, and the way café terraces bloom with laughter in the spring. Rediscovering the city alone reminded me that solitude doesn’t have to feel empty. I started treating my Sunday mornings like a solo date—croissants, a notepad, and people-watching in Parc La Fontaine. Side note: eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations makes excellent therapy.

  2. Failure is a Terrible, Wonderful Teacher
    Losing my job felt like an existential sucker punch, but it forced me to reevaluate what I wanted. For years, I’d pigeonholed myself into translating others’ words, neglecting my own stories. With no 9-to-5 rope tethering me, I started freelancing—and writing for myself again. It wasn’t easy, but slowly, invoices started replacing my credit card debt, and my self-doubt got smaller with each submit button I hit.

  3. Your Tribe is Your Lifeboat
    Post-breakup, I realized I’d let too many of my friendships slip. (Call it emotional tunnel vision.) Rebuilding those bridges saved me. Dinners with old friends turned into long conversations where we laughed so hard, craft beers almost came out of our noses. Several reminded me: “You were you before him, and you’re still you now.” Words that still live rent-free in my head.

  4. Small Wins Are Underrated
    Not every victory has to be Instagram-worthy. Sometimes it’s as simple as finally fixing that leaky faucet or baking cookies without setting off the smoke alarm. Life started to look manageable when I celebrated the little things—a Spotify playlist that cheered me up, the first morning I woke up without replaying every breakup conversation, or making a budget that didn’t self-destruct in a week.

Act 4: Stitching Myself Back Together

Piece by piece, I started showing up for myself again. I joined a French poetry club (nerdy, yes, but oh-so-satisfying), I traded late-night Netflix marathons for morning yoga, and I wrote the boldest thing I could imagine: an open letter to... myself. In it, I admitted fears, big dreams, and how far I’d already come.

If you’ve ever doubted the power of pen on paper, let me tell you: it’s transformative. Writing it all down made me realize I was no longer the person who’d fallen apart months earlier. I was someone new, someone stronger.

Act 5: The Happily-Ever-Work-in-Progress

Let me be clear: I am not here declaring victory with a capital V. There are still days when I grumble at my alarm clock or catch myself reminiscing about what-ifs. Growth isn’t linear—it’s a series of hairpin turns with questionable WiFi. But now, I have tools to navigate the detours: yoga, laughter, chocolate croissants, friends who tell me the truth, and an unshakable belief that everything—even a cracked macaron-tooth—is temporary.

The year everything fell apart? It didn’t destroy me—it rebuilt me. So if you’re there now, staring at the metaphorical rubble of your life, take it from me: you’ll be okay. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually... you’ll find it—the glue, the courage, the silly little moments that make everything hurt a little less. You’ll put it all back together. And when you do, you’ll realize something remarkable: starting over isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.