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

In Wyoming, life comes in seasons. Summers burst with energy, stretching hours of daylight into infinity, while winters grip you so tightly with their silence that you can’t help but hear your own thoughts. Somewhere between those extremes, I lost myself one year—and, with a little grit and a lot of grace, found my way back.

This isn’t a story about a perfect comeback with swelling music in the background. It’s more about the messy middle—when all you can do is pull on your boots, even when they feel like concrete. If you’ve ever felt like the mountain was way too steep to climb, maybe this is your story too. Let me tell you how the ground fell out from under me—and what I learned about climbing back, one deliberate step at a time.

Winter’s Storms: When Life Won’t Let Up

That year started with a breakup the size of the Tetons. We’d been together for three years, so long I could recite the soundtrack to her morning routine: the clamor of her favorite mug as it banged against the counter, the low whistle of a tea kettle, and the quiet hum of Fleetwood Mac playing in the background again. I thought we had roots, but roots can rot when you stop watering them.

When it ended, I did what any self-respecting former park ranger does in a crisis: I ran to the trees. I filled my hiking pack and headed for the Wind River Range, my go-to when I needed solitude—or, occasionally, to avoid self-reflection. Except grief doesn’t care how high you climb. You can’t outrun it. Somewhere between mile seven and my tent pitching failure (they don’t tell you that stakes don’t bite in frozen soil), it hit me like the first slap of frostbite. I’d been making a home in someone else’s life and had no idea how to build my own without her.

Then, as if my personal cracks weren’t enough, the universe decided to send literal ones. A pipe in my cabin burst during a record cold snap. I woke up to a floor that resembled the Snake River and a repair estimate that cost more than my entire savings account. Standing there, knee-deep in icy water, I remember thinking with bitter irony, “Well, metaphor accomplished, universe. Message received.”

The Spring Thaw: When You Start to Look Up

Here’s the thing about rock bottom: once you’re there, the only way is up. Turns out there’s an odd freedom in knowing you’ve got nothing left to lose. With my budget cable-tied together and no longer emotionally tethered to Netflix-and-chill nights, I took stock of myself—much like you’d survey the aftermath of an avalanche before deciding where to dig.

I started small, not because I had any vision of self-improvement but because, frankly, I had no other choice. First, there was the pipe repair—which taught me way more about PVC coupling than I ever thought I’d know. Then I got my hands on a repair manual for my beater of a truck, mostly because calling roadside assistance every two weeks was no longer a responsible financial choice. My hands, which had spent more years sketching osprey nests than turning wrenches, got clumsy but steady as I rebuilt piece by sputtering piece.

Funny thing about physical tasks: they clear your mind. Hours fixing what was broken in my external world gave me space to grapple with my internal one. I began journaling again—this time not about wildlife but about myself, my fears, my failings. It was messy, inconsistent, but it planted something I hadn’t felt in months: hope.

Summer’s Bloom: Growth Never Happens Overnight

Rebuilding my life was less Hallmark movie and more slow-mo montage, with the occasional face-first tumble into the mud. Some lessons came hard. Relationships, for one, are like firewood. If you tend them—you know, actually show up, add kindling, fan the flames—they might burn brightly. But if you let the whole thing smolder unattended because you’re distracted by work or your own insecurities, you’re left with ash. It wasn’t enough to realize my past mistakes; I had to figure out how to stop repeating them.

I wouldn’t have told you that exercise had anything magical about it—maybe because my hikes were always more for the view than the sweat. But that summer, I stumbled across a beginner’s trail-running group in nearby Pinedale. The most unexpected part? I stayed. There’s something grounding about the immediacy of placing one foot after the other, lungs burning and glutes screaming. It reminded me that progress—for anything—rarely comes easy, and yet it teaches you how resilient you can be. Plus, sweating it out was far better therapy than sulking alone with clearance-section bourbon.

I even began searching for joy in hobbies I’d abandoned long ago. I dusted off my guitar and started learning the bluegrass chord progressions from my dad’s old songbook. I picked up my sketchbook again, rediscovering how much a few pencil lines could calm my restless brain. None of it “fixed” me overnight. But piece by piece, I started to feel like I was stitching myself back together.

Harvesting the Lesson: Here’s What I Learned

If you’re in the middle of your own metaphorical bad winter, let me save you the trouble of learning this the hard way: growth doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no magical retreat, three-step checklist, or “perfect partner” who will save you from doing the work. But here’s what does help:

  • Tend to what’s in front of you. Sometimes the only thing you can control is your immediate surroundings—cooking a meal, fixing a broken faucet, or journaling your thoughts. Start there. Clarity comes from action.

  • Find something uncomfortable, and lean into it. I swore I’d never be a runner—not even if something was chasing me. And yet, those Pinedale trail runs reshaped more than my calves—they gave me faith in my ability to do hard things.

  • Give yourself permission to take baby steps. Self-reinvention doesn’t require grand gestures. It’s built in small moments, like playing new songs on an out-of-tune guitar or writing bad poems that you wouldn’t dare show anyone.

  • Laugh a little, even when you don’t want to. Admittedly, nothing about a flooded cabin was funny in the moment, but yelling “I LIVE IN A SWAMP NOW!” to no one in particular helped me reclaim a tiny sliver of humor. Perspective matters.

Fall’s Quiet: When You Feel Lighter

A year later, I stood in my cabin—dry floors, pipes intact, paint touch-ups still in progress—and realized something surprising. It was quiet, but this time the silence didn’t weigh on me. It didn’t hum with regret or ache with loneliness. It was just calm. Some days, life still throws its curveballs—we all know the universe can’t help itself—but the difference is this: I’ve built something steady inside myself. Roots, actual roots—not tangled up in someone else but anchored in my own life.

If you’re in the weeds right now, I’d remind you what the Wyoming seasons have taught me: sometimes everything freezes. Sometimes it floods. And yet, eventually, the ground always thaws. Hang in there. You’re tougher than you think.