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

It Started Like a Rom-Com—Until It Didn’t

There’s a moment in every rom-com when the protagonist thinks they’ve got it all figured out: the perfect partner, a steady routine, maybe even a future mapped out with cheerful montage music playing in the background. For me, that moment happened in the early days of the year everything fell apart. I was in a seemingly stable relationship, career was humming along comfortably, and I figured the hard part of my “coming-of-age arc” was long behind me.

Spoiler: It wasn’t.

By the end of that year, I was single, questioning my choices, and, to really lean into the trope, sitting alone in my Toronto apartment eating cold pizza while binge-watching The Office. (Thanks, Jim and Pam, for setting comically high relationship expectations.) If my life had a soundtrack at that moment, it wouldn’t have been montage music—just that familiar Netflix “Are you still watching?” prompt, mocking me softly in the background.

So, how did everything fall apart? And more importantly, how did I start picking up the pieces? Buckle up. This is a tale of heartbreak, self-discovery, and exactly how many tubs of ice cream it takes to rebuild your confidence. Answer: a concerning amount.

The Breakup That Knocked Me Out (Literally, Almost)

Let’s skip the gory details of how my long-term partner and I broke up, but suffice it to say, it was mutual-ish. No screaming fights or wardrobe-throwing theatrics, just the quiet realization that two people who once shared everything no longer shared much at all. I went to bed that night feeling simultaneously relieved and hollow, somehow both “Eat Pray Love” empowered and melodramatic Grey’s Anatomy Meredith Grey: “Pick me. Choose me. Love me.” Unfortunately, neither Javier Bardem nor McDreamy showed up. Rude.

Breakups are wild because, even when you know the relationship isn’t right, it’s like losing your GPS in a foreign city. For months after, my identity felt tied up in what “we” were, and suddenly, there wasn’t a “we.” Just me—an aimless, overthinking, early-thirties person Googling, “Is it normal to cry at Tim Hortons drive-thru?”

When Life Adds Extra Chaos for Good Measure

And because the universe doesn’t know when to quit, the breakup was just the opening act. Next came a full-blown career existential crisis. You’d think growing up in Toronto, I’d be immune to the hustle culture, but nope—I was right there in it. After spending years freelancing arts pieces, with the occasional novel-writing detour, I hit a creative block so massive it might as well have had a sign reading, “NOPE, TRY AGAIN LATER.”

Oh, and let’s not forget family drama—a subplot no one asks for, yet we all get at some point. My folks decided this would be the year they started comparing my dating life (or lack thereof) to my third cousin’s picture-perfect marriage. “She’s so happy with her husband,” my mom would say, conveniently forgetting that I’d just reminded her, for the fifth time, that no, I don’t actually like people who comment “lookin’ good!” on every selfie I post.

By fall, I was emotionally spent, creatively stuck, and entirely fed up with myself. I needed a reset—or at least a moment to stop feeling like the sidekick in my own story.

How I (Very Slowly) Put My Life Back Together

Okay, so I’d love to say there was an “aha” epiphany moment where I turned my life around. Like someone handed me the secret formula for happiness, and voilà! Fixed overnight. But this isn’t a cheesy redemption plot. It wasn’t about “finding myself” by impulsively booking plane tickets or learning to make handmade pasta in Italy. (Though let’s circle back on that pasta idea.)

Here’s the real deal: rebuilding starts with the tiniest, most boring steps. And when you’re at rock-bottom, those first steps feel monumental. Here’s what finally helped me get out of my spiral:

  1. Redefining What “Enough” Means
    For the first time in years, I grabbed a journal and started untangling the weird, ingrained idea that my life had to look a certain way by a certain age. Married by 30, steady job, a condo downtown—um, hello, who wrote that script? (It me. I wrote it. Cue self-reflection cringe.)
    Instead, I started celebrating the small stuff—getting through the day without crying over a random Drake song (thanks for nothing, “Marvins Room”) counted as a victory. Success, I decided, didn’t have to mean “perfect.” It could just mean “moving forward.”

  2. Turning My Apartment Into a Sanctuary
    I’d never been the “candles and throw pillows” type, but post-breakup, my apartment vibes were actively depressing. So, I Marie Kondo-ed the heck out of my space and let Toronto’s quirky Kensington Market shops inspire me. Plants? Check. Cozy blankets? Check. That random indie print I found at a vendor’s stall? Oh, absolutely. Slowly, the space felt less like a breakup cave and more like my home.

  3. Dabbling in What Scared Me
    This was the year I learned saying “yes” isn’t just for rom-com montages. I signed up for a pottery class. Bizarrely—because I’m hardly athletic—I played a pickup soccer game at the insistence of a friend. Humiliating? Sure. But also? Fun. The point wasn’t suddenly becoming a master potter or soccer star. It was getting out there, doing things that forced me out of my overthinking headspace. (And FYI, I’m still terrible at pottery. Looks like haunted lumps of clay.)

  4. Hitting Pause Without Guilt
    For someone who grew up in Toronto’s constant buzz, I’d always felt I needed to do something to “fix” my life, as if rest was some kind of failure. But that year taught me how to simply…stop. Walks along the Don River, evenings rereading The Diviners—sometimes standing still is what actually helps you find your footing.

The Most Surprising Thing I Learned

Here’s the twist no one tells you: Falling apart doesn’t mean breaking forever. In fact, I’d argue, that weird, chaotic year was one of my most transformational. Sure, it hurt like hell at first, but it forced me to question what actually makes me happy—not what Instagram says should make me happy, or what distant relatives think I should do.

If you’re reading this and it feels like your own personal universe is imploding, trust me: You’re far stronger than you realize (and there’s life after impulse haircuts and crying in Uber rides). Turns out, rock-bottom offers one clear advantage: You’ve got nowhere to go but up.

The Takeaway

Your journey will look different from mine—you might rebuild with therapy sessions, road trips, or even a Taylor Swift breakup playlist on repeat. Whatever it is, keep going. Trust that piece by piece, day by day, you’ll put yourself back together in a stronger, more vibrant way.

Heartbreak sucks; failures sting; but the good news? You’re still here. And maybe, just maybe, you’re closer to the person you were always meant to be.