It all started with a cracked surfboard. I know, it sounds trivial—fix the board, ride the wave, move on. But as I stared at my battered board one gray February morning, salty spray stinging my cheeks, I realized it wasn’t just fiberglass that was falling apart. It was everything. My career, my relationship, even my unwavering optimism—each piece crumbling like dried-up sand cliffs after a high tide. Turns out, life has a funny way of smacking you in the face when you’re too busy paddling forward to notice the storm clouds gathering.

Let’s just call it what it was: The Year Everything Fell Apart. Capital T, capital Y. And while coastal erosion is part of the natural order, my own brand of disaster felt calamitous, dramatic, and—when looked back on—kind of hilarious.

Chapter 1: Professional Driftwood

I’d been comfortably coasting as a staff copywriter for a sustainable-living nonprofit when the hammer fell: budget cuts. I’d gone from tweaking sentences about bamboo toothbrushes to nursing a funemployment hangover in less time than it takes to toast sourdough. My farewell gift? A mason jar filled with herbal tea bags, which felt like a cruel metaphor for steeping in existential dread.

Creatively speaking, I was adrift. I had this degree in marine biology collecting dust and a knack for storytelling, but I couldn’t seem to merge the two in a way that paid the bills. Cue an extended work-from-bed phase (would not recommend), binge-watching comforting chaos like The Great British Bake Off while wondering if soggy bottoms might somehow be my new calling. Trust me: the pre-midlife crisis is just as messy as its older sibling.

Chapter 2: A Relationship Wipeout

As if losing my job wasn’t enough to redefine "unmoored," my then-long-term relationship decided to go belly-up in spectacular fashion. We’re talking textbook slow-burn incompatibility that eventually boiled over like an overstuffed pot of ramen on the stove: messy, tangled, and completely unsalvageable.

I’ll spare you the gory details. Let’s just say breaking up with someone in your late 20s feels like pulling out a carefully constructed Jenga tower brick by brick—except instead of a party game, it's your shared future crumbling in public. Coastal comparisons? Oh, I’ve got them. He was my tidepool in a storm: once fascinating, but increasingly full of sharp edges and dead ends.

After the dust settled, I did what any heartbroken millennial might do—I booked a two-week solo road trip up the California coast. (Yes, I wore oversized sunglasses and drove with purpose, blasting Fleetwood Mac like the main character in an indie film. Highly recommend the drama.) I needed salty air and space to process, which thankfully the towering redwoods and empty beaches excelled at providing. Pro tip: yelling, “I’m releasing you!” into the ocean feels slightly cathartic, even if it earns side-eyes from the seagulls.

Chapter 3: How to Put Humpty Dumpty (Me) Back Together

Here’s the thing about hitting rock bottom—or tidepool bottom, if we’re sticking to theme. From this squishy, mucky floor, you can only go up. But it’s no automatic riptide pulling you toward redemption. It’s paddling. Hard. Day by day.

I started small with rituals that made me remember who I was before the chaos. Jogging barefoot along La Jolla Shores. Buying fresh produce at my dad’s organic grocery and trying to cook something more ambitious than cereal. Even volunteering to lead eco-tours, guiding wide-eyed middle schoolers through kelp forests with facts I hadn’t touched since undergrad.

And then came the journaling. Nothing fancy—just a spiral-bound notebook with scribbled daily entries about everything from my feelings to funny interactions at the coffee shop. It was messy, experimental, and deeply personal. Until, one day, something clicked: “What if there’s a story here?”

Chapter 4: Lessons From the Year the Sky Fell

In hindsight, the Year of Disaster wasn't destruction but renewal—an eco-friendly upcycle of my own reality. Here are a few key pearls I collected along the way:

  • It’s Okay to Redefine Yourself: Society loves neat little checkboxes—stable job, happy home, curated Instagram feed. When you blow past those expectations (or they implode on you), there’s a chance to redraw your map entirely.

  • Let Yourself Mourn—and Then Move: It’s not weak to cry over what you’ve lost. But the real power lies in moving forward afterward. Take that trip. Change cities. Shave your head if you must. Reclaiming a sense of control can be mighty freeing.

  • Community Matters in Crisis: Whether leaning on friends, family, a therapist, or an unreasonably attentive barista, find your people. Connection gives you strength on days when yours feels dried up like old driftwood.

  • Your Passion Can Regrow: During my darkest months, my passions started to feel like dead coral reefs—colorless and broken. But when I leaned into nature walks, poetry, and storytelling again from a place of authenticity, they bloomed back brighter than ever.

A New Beginning

Eventually, I repurposed my journaling into essays (which somehow became my career—seriously, what!?) and salvaged my sense of humor through awkward new experiences. I even gave surfing another go, flipping my battered board over and refilling the cracks with resin. Because, as any good coastal repair job will teach you, the goal isn’t perfection—it’s resilience.

So, whether you're traipsing across rocky relationship terrain or pouring “hot mess espresso shots” into your career plan, know this: Rough patches are inevitable. But they’re not the end—it’s just the tide carving you into something stronger, smoother, and uniquely you.

This time last year, I didn’t think I’d survive. Today, I look at my patched-together surfboard, standing upright and gleaming on the shore, and I think: “We’re both still here. And that’s enough.”