The Year Everything Fell Apart (and How I Put It Back Together)
There’s a specific kind of irony in waking up to what feels like your life collapsing while you’ve technically "made it." That was me last year, sipping on overpriced almond milk lattes in Santa Monica, pretending to be achingly coastal and cool while my world was on fire. Every facade I’d so neatly constructed—relationships, career, even my sense of self—cracked like the sourdough starters we all emotionally adopted during 2020.
I’ve always considered myself someone who thrives on control. A plan, a to-do list, and the perfect Instagram filter had all kept me relatively sane for years. But last year? Last year laughed in my face, tossed my plans into a Vitamix, and hit "pulverize."
Let me break it down for you—because maybe you’ve been there, too. Or maybe you will. Either way, here’s what happens when everything falls apart and, more importantly, how you start piecing it back together.
Step 1: Watch the Sandcastle Wash Away
It didn’t start with fireworks but with a fizzle: a conversation that wasn’t quite right. You know the kind—the sneaky silence that slides into your relationship, a space where connection once lived. Before I knew it, my partner of three years and I were having those dreaded Big Talks. And then, just like that, I was single.
Breakups are peculiar beasts. One day, someone is your ride-or-die, your Sunday farmer’s market buddy, the one who texts you about weirdly specific bird sightings (no? just me?). The next, they’re just gone. Cue the middle-of-the-night Google searches: “Can heartbreak actually kill you?” (Spoiler: it can’t, but it sure puts up a fight.)
While I was reeling, the universe wasn’t done with me. My writing career, which I’d painstakingly nursed into a delicate balance of West Coast chill and literary merit, hit a wall. A creative block stormed in like Godzilla stomping through Los Angeles—unexpected, unwelcome, and abnormally destructive.
Worst of all? I felt betrayed by myself. The person I thought I was—strong, capable, grounded—was nowhere to be found. I was a shipwreck in a sea of kombucha shops and surfer bros.
Step 2: Have Your Main-Character-Moment Meltdown
When you live in Santa Monica, eating your feelings means avocado toast and overpriced probiotic smoothies, which is, frankly, an unsatisfying way to spiral. I vividly remember sobbing in my car in a Whole Foods parking lot (because cliché is my middle name). I didn’t know where to go. Seriously, where do you go when you don’t recognize your own reflection anymore?
So, I did what any millennial with a coastal upbringing and access to Pinterest would do: I tried healing the aesthetic way. Think beach walks at sunset, journaling under a eucalyptus tree, possibly humming Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” while staring wistfully at the Pacific. Did it help? A little. But mostly, it felt like throwing glitter on a house fire.
Here’s what no one tells you about falling apart: it’s messy. Your breakup playlist will cycle between Sheryl Crow’s “If It Makes You Happy” and pop-punk anthems from your emo phase. You’ll buy essential oils you don’t believe in and have an ugly cry in a Target aisle because the candles smell particularly nostalgic. Let yourself have it. Healing doesn’t look pretty—it’s an awkward montage that doesn’t go viral because no one thinks to hashtag: #BreakdownGlowUp.
Step 3: Build a New Foundation (and Get Real About It)
Eventually, I realized I couldn’t essential-oil my way out of this. If I wanted to rebuild, I’d have to start small. Think Jenga blocks, not mansions, y’know? So, I gave myself permission to start from zero.
And you know what rebuilt me most? Nature. As someone raised amid Santa Barbara’s coastal beauty, I’d spent years taking the outdoors for granted. But I started hiking. Not the trendy kind you post on Instagram with a wide-brim hat and an iced matcha. Real hikes. The kind where you sweat, get dirt in your shoes, and feel that humbling "smallness" that only a rugged hillside can deliver.
There’s something about standing at the edge of a cliff, seabreeze whipping your face, that’s profoundly regenerative. Nature doesn’t care about your bad breakup, your career lull, or the existential angst of nearing 35 with no solid five-year plan. It just...is. Constant. Grounded. And eventually, a tiny ecosystem inside me started remembering how to grow again.
I somehow found ways to let curiosity inch back into my life. I signed up for a ceramics class (spoiler: I am horrible at wheel throwing). I planted a little herb garden that promptly burned in one record-breaking heatwave, but hey, it’s the effort, right? These small things anchored me.
Step 4: Stop Looking for the Old Version of You
For the Type-A readers out there: I get you. I spent months trying to claw my way back to the person I used to be before the heartbreak and chaos. Don’t. That person is gone because they need to be.
Instead, ask yourself: who do you want to be now? For me, the answer wasn’t immediate—it arrived in breadcrumbs. Maybe it’s courage. Or kindness. Or letting yourself giggle uncontrollably at silly things again, like a dog wearing sunglasses or watching reruns of Parks and Recreation.
Life doesn’t have a rewind button. Kind of rude, honestly. But it does have unexpected turns if you’re willing to shift gears. Link up with friends who make you laugh, read books that make you feel seen, and accidentally fall in love with yourself when you realize you’re capable of learning—not despite the mess, but because of it.
Step 5: Tidy Up the Mess, But Keep the Lessons
These days, my life isn’t fixed, because perfection is boring. My writing gradually found its spark again—I let go of trying to create “masterpieces” and settled for stories that felt honest, even raw. Some of those turned out to be my best work yet.
Love? Let’s just say I’ve stopped measuring it by timelines or societal expectations. There’s an unexpected sweetness to being your own rescue mission first. That said, I’ve also learned to slow down and let new connections unfold organically.
The most important takeaway is this: falling apart might be the best accidental gift I’ve given myself. When you strip it all back—titles, to-do lists, image management—you realize who you are underneath the noise. (And spoiler: that person is pretty damn resilient.)
Closing the Loop
Here’s the thing about life’s little implosions: they come for all of us at some point. But on the other side of all that wreckage, there’s a chance to build something softer, more real.
So, if your past year has been a dumpster fire, I’m with you. Sift through the ash, find the lessons (even if it means crying in a Whole Foods parking lot), and trust that whatever you rebuild will be wilder, more beautiful, and more YOU than anything you left behind.
Because when the sandcastle washes away, you’ve still got the ocean—and you’re stronger than the tide.
