By the time the tumbleweed of 2022 came to a stop, I was standing in the middle of a mess that even Scarlett O’Hara couldn’t have sashayed her way out of. My hair hadn’t seen a professional since Valentine’s Day, my house was channeling “post-apocalyptic flea market,” and I was nursing a heartbreak so profound that even Savannah’s balmy jasmine-scented afternoons felt oppressive.

It was the year everything—the plans, the love, the tidy little boxes I’d put my life into—fell spectacularly apart.

But here’s the thing about dismantling: It’s ripe with the potential for rebuilding. Savannah was built on ashes—literally—and if this city has taught me anything, it’s that beauty often appears where ruin once lived.

The Jenga Tower of My Year: What Fell Apart

Life was humming along as I fancied it would—like one of those charming Southern melodies my mother used to play on her piano. I had a predictable rhythm to my days: teaching lectures on Southern architecture by morning, attending dinner parties where I over-analyzed biscuits by night, and loading up on minor literary awards and slightly stale compliments in between.

Then, one Tuesday (because, let’s face it, Tuesdays are the worst), the universe knocked the whole delicate symphony flat.

  • The Relationship Crumbled: A tied-at-the-hip romance unraveled with the speed and grace of an unraveling ball of yarn chased by an overly ambitious golden retriever. Suddenly, the life I thought we were building together started to feel like a Polaroid that never fully developed.
  • Work Became a Slog: My creative tanks ran dry. Writing fiction became impossible as I waded through heartbreak. Even emails sounded embarrassingly self-pitying, like Dear John letters to the universe.
  • Friendships Got Messy: Everyone tells you relationships shouldn’t define you—but no one acknowledges what it’s like when your “we” friends forget you even had a “me.”

It wasn’t some big, tidy catastrophe. No, my year was an accumulation of tiny misalignments. Like that historic garden gate that swings just a little too wide—you don’t notice the damage until it topples off completely.

From Ashes to Action: When I Finally Stopped Crying Into My Coffee

Somewhere between dodging shared Spotify playlists and stealing my ex’s Netflix password back (do you get custody of their profiles after a breakup?), I remembered something my father once said about restoring Savannah’s old homes: “Every rot’s an opportunity to rebuild better.”

My personal rot had spread—but maybe it was telling me where to start. Here’s what helped me dig myself out of the rubble, brick by brick:

  • I Got Rid of the Broken Things: This started with actual things—old cards from an ex, clothes that no longer sparked joy (I’m looking at you, scratchy polyester blouse)—but it also extended to routines that no longer worked. Sunday brunch at our favorite spot? Not happening anymore. Goodbye to bad oysters and worse memories.

  • I Reconnected With Myself (Literally): One day, I grabbed my mother’s weathered leather-bound copy of Flannery O’Connor and headed to Bonaventure Cemetery. Reading Gothic tales in a moss-draped graveyard felt equal parts tragic and poetic—a fitting backdrop for an existential crisis. Rediscovering me meant going back to places, rituals, and even foods that brought me joy long before the chaos.

  • I Called In My Crew: Old friendships that I’d neglected and reclusive tendencies I’d developed needed a stern talking-to, Southern-style. Call it adulting for the soul, but texting a high school friend and venting tears over peach cobbler felt far better than scrolling Instagram in silence.

Building Something Stronger

Once the dust began to settle, I felt like one of those elegant but slightly off-kilter Savannah mansions restored with care—painted in vibrant new colors, weather-worn details polished but proudly visible.

Here’s how I began crafting the life I truly wanted, one thoughtful step at a time:

1. Finding Joy in Small Rebellions

For years, I’d kept a mental list of silly things I wasn’t allowed to do in my perfect, over-structured life: wear white after Labor Day (hello, modern South—this rule is stale), smuggle French fries into a movie theater, try karaoke. I set about breaking all of them. Turns out rebellion is delicious, preferably with ketchup on the side.

2. Turning Creative Ruins Into Gold

Georgia clay is rich and malleable, perfect for crafting—but somehow, I’d forgotten that creativity demands getting messy. I poked at old ideas for short stories, repotted half-dead houseplants in colorful ceramic pots and poured more time into scribbling nonsense than I had in years. My artistic blocks didn’t vanish, but doors cracked open to let light in.

3. Redefining Simple Romantic Wins

No, I wasn’t looking for love immediately—but I did start noticing something electrifying about “chance encounters.” A simple flirtation at a farmer’s market left me giddy, reminding me love didn’t always wear grand gestures and sweeping music cues. Sometimes it’s the cute stranger in the tomato aisle. And sometimes, it’s a flirty nod to yourself in the mirror. Confidence is coy, y’all.

My Southern Gothic Renaissance

By the end of that year, the heartbreak that had felt like a towering storm cloud began to seem more like one of Savannah’s misty rains—humid and inconvenient, sure, but ultimately life-giving.

The funny thing about losing everything is that you’re forced—brutally, beautifully forced—to think carefully about each piece you want back. What do you keep? What do you let fade like an old, sepia-toned memory?

For me, this past year has become a patchwork of new discoveries and familiar comforts. It’s drinking my very first glass of wine alone at Savannah’s oldest tavern and realizing, mid-sip, that I liked my own company. It’s saying “no” to invitations that feel hollow and showing up fully for the ones that don’t. It’s framing the breakup playlist like a well-earned battle scar—and swapping Adele for Lizzo when the mood strikes.

Did It All Tie Together? Not Quite—And That’s Okay

Looking back, I’d love to say “everything happens for a reason,” but truthfully? That cliché feels like the polite bow tied on top of an unfinished novel. There’s still a hole where this heartbreak lived—a space I haven’t fully decorated yet.

But, like Savannah herself, I’m learning: There’s power in imperfection. Your architecture may lean a little to one side; Spanish moss might hang heavily from every surface, swaying in unruly ways you can’t quite manage. And yet somehow, it’s beautiful.