When Everything Falls Apart: Welcome to the Mess

They say bad things come in threes, but for me, they arrived like an all-you-can-eat buffet of chaos. And let me tell you, I didn’t ask for seconds. It started with a breakup—the messy kind that feels less like two people walking away and more like an emotional dumpster fire. Then came the loss of a dream job opportunity, followed by a health scare that had me intimately acquainted with WebMD (don’t Google anything at 2 a.m., no matter how benign the symptoms).

By mid-year, I felt like a character in a cheesy disaster movie, standing in the middle of a storm shouting, “Is that all you’ve got?” Spoiler: It wasn’t. Life had a few more plot twists for me. But, as with every dramatic narrative, there was a turning point. Here’s how I sifted through the debris of a year gone wrong and started piecing myself back together.

Step One: Embrace the Suck (But Don’t Unpack and Live There)

When everything’s spiraling, your first instinct might be to slap on a smile and tell the world, “I’m fine!” like you’re auditioning for a role as Overwhelmed Person #3 in a sitcom. I tried that. Spoiler: It didn’t work.

Instead, I let myself grieve—deeply, messily, and thoroughly. I made playlists full of moody indie ballads and cried on the kitchen floor more times than I’d care to admit. There’s something oddly comforting in knowing you’ve reached the “spoon peanut butter out of the jar at midnight” phase of sorrow. It sounds counterproductive, but it was exactly what I needed. Knowing it’s okay not to be okay—cheesy, yes, but true—was the first step in moving forward.

But here’s the trick: set an internal timer. You don’t want to get stuck there. Allow yourself to feel, to wallow, and then remind yourself there’s sunlight on the other side of the fog.

Step Two: Redefine What a “Win” Looks Like

For someone who thrives on checklists and “I’ve got my life together” energy, this year was a humbling reminder that sometimes, surviving is the win.

When my big goals felt overwhelming (get a new job! meet amazing people! rise from the ashes like an over-achieving phoenix!), I forced myself to scale back. I traded to-do lists with existential stakes for ones that felt, well, manageable. Some of the highlights:

  • Take a 10-minute walk every day. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain. There’s something oddly cleansing about being soggy and surrounded by nature.
  • Clean one drawer. Just one. Who knew how much joy could come from organizing socks?
  • Call a friend and don’t talk about yourself. Relationships go both ways, and hearing about someone else’s chaos made me feel less alone.

Redefining success as small, achievable milestones gave me the boost I needed without feeling like I had to rebuild Rome on a Monday.

Step Three: Turn to Nature (And Maybe Yell Into It)

Growing up in Bar Harbor, nature was my sanctuary. But somewhere in adulthood, I’d started seeing it more as a backdrop and less as the grounding force it had always been. When life pulled out all the stops this year, I found myself gravitating back to the woods, the shorelines, and the misty cliffs of Acadia.

I hiked familiar trails with unglamorous intentions—wet sneakers and all—just to remind myself that not everything is a metaphor (though if you want to compare climbing a literal mountain to overcoming your life’s challenges, nature is happy to oblige).

There’s also something oddly cathartic about shouting all your frustrations into a forest at twilight. It’s the most dramatic thing I’ve done since breaking out the Ugly Cry during that one Nicholas Sparks movie years ago. The good news? Pines don’t judge, and every echo felt like a declaration: Maybe life’s a mess, but I’m still here.

Step Four: Examine Your Relationships—and Yes, That’s Awkward

This was the hardest part. I had to get real about my inner circle and ask tough questions. Were the people around me lifting me up, or did I feel like I was constantly running emotional triage on one-sided friendships?

I let relationships lie fallow that year, in the way you let a field rest before planting time. It wasn’t out of spite, but preservation. I realized I had friendships built on convenience rather than connection, the emotional equivalent of gas station snacks.

But this pruning also meant cultivating new connections. Having hours-long talks with people who knew the exact weight of what I was going through—from the breakup to the career uncertainty—was like opening the windows after weeks of stale air. Vulnerability became less about “maybe they’ll judge me” and more about “maybe they’ll help me see things I can’t.” (Spoiler: They did.)

Step Five: Rediscover Joy (Even the Silly Kind)

I’m not talking about earth-shaking, Renaissance-painting joy here. I’m talking about hair-tie-on-your-wrist kind of joy—the small, stupid things that remind you life can be good. For me, it started with dusting off an old habit I’d let slip: journaling. As a teenager, I’d scribbled notes about everything from my earliest crushes to the exact location of a particularly pretty tidepool.

That year, I started carrying a notebook wherever I went, jotting down fragments of hope or humor. A sunset in a parking lot. The time my neighbor’s cat got stuck in a tree. (I helped with that rescue, by the way. My scratched arm says you’re welcome, Fluffy.)

From there, it was easier to embrace bigger joys. I splurged on a lobster roll I didn’t need, bought tickets to a tiny folk concert on a whim, and laughed until I cried when my attempt at baking a rustic sourdough loaf ended with something that looked—and tasted—like a rock formation.

The Year I Got Real With Myself

Here’s the thing they don’t always tell you about the “everything falls apart” year. It doesn’t end with a perfect epiphany. There’s no triumphant musical score swelling as you declare, “I’ve figured it all out!” Instead, you start to notice little shifts, like brighter mornings or laughter that doesn’t feel forced.

That year taught me to be gentler with myself, to let go of the pressure to have it all together, and to embrace the wilderness of being alive in a world that’s both messy and beautiful. Like the tidepools I grew up exploring, life is full of sharp edges, hidden treasures, and unexpected lifeforms lurking just beneath the surface.

So if your life is currently a hot mess, congratulations. You’re on page one of a far more interesting story. Start small. Get outside. Whisper your fears, scream your frustrations, and then—bit by bit—start building something better. After all, the road back might not look like a yellow brick highway, but you might just find yourself somewhere remarkable anyway.