It started in January with a storm—a literal one. Heavy rains in Santiago flooded the tiny studio apartment I’d just moved into after returning from Madrid. By February, my world felt like it had joined the chaos of the weather. The relationship I’d nurtured for two years across two continents ended in a 15-word text message (yes, I counted them), and by March, a certain brand of instant noodles became my new best friend. You know you're in trouble when you start giving them nicknames.

"This is fine," I told myself, like that meme of the dog surrounded by flames. Except it wasn’t fine. By the middle of the year, I was grieving not just a breakup, but the carefully constructed plan I’d made for my life. The one where love, work, and happiness marched in a straight line to a triumphant marching band, not this shapeless jazz cacophony I couldn’t follow. But like any good telenovela heroine, I picked myself up, mascara streaks and all, figuring out how to salvage not just the second half of the year, but myself. I learned that rebuilding isn’t about grand gestures; it’s in the small, sometimes ridiculous, acts of defiance against defeat.

Here’s how I put it back together—storms, noodles, heartbreak, and all.

1. Chop Wood, Carry Water (or, Try Something So Unromantic It’s Refreshing)

Two weeks after my breakup, I joined a carpentry workshop on a whim. To be clear, I had no practical reason to be there—I wasn’t itching to build bookshelves or become the next Mary Poppins with her magical bag of solutions. I went simply because every ounce of me wanted to wallow at home, and that felt both poetic and pathetic. So instead, I showed up, surrounded by people with a toolbox of skills I lacked. By the end of the first session, I had made something entirely unremarkable: a lopsided wooden frame.

But here’s the thing: working with my hands forced my brain to shut up. For a few hours, it didn’t matter who texted whom last or why our “forever” wasn’t long enough. It became about measuring twice and cutting once—a simple mantra I started applying to everything. Decisions felt smaller and clearer. Would this action help me grow, or was I just cutting corners? Carpentry reminded me there’s joy in building from scratch and pride in the imperfections.

Takeaway: Try something so unconnected to your usual routine that you can’t overthink it. Paint badly. Bake bread that resembles a meteorite. Build furniture no one will buy. The goal isn’t to be great at it; it’s to un-stick your brain.

2. Travel Light—Literally, Emotionally, Spiritually

By April, I was in Madrid again, this time not to study or romanticize anything but to feel untethered. I went with one backpack and no plans to find myself (seriously, has anyone actually “found” themselves, or did they just buy a better suitcase?). I stayed with friends and wandered neighborhoods like Malasaña and Lavapiés with no agenda.

One night, I ended up at an underground flamenco show. It wasn’t polished like the touristy ones. The sweaty guitarist, the woman in an unapologetically frilled red dress—everything was raw, urgent, alive. Flamenco isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection, about letting emotions spill out wildly until they find their rhythm. In that dimly lit room, under the thrum of foot stomps and mournful wails, I felt understood. See, you don’t always need to resolve the mess inside you. Sometimes, you just need to let it out and dance around in the chaos.

Takeaway: You’re allowed to carry your cracks and imperfections with you. Go somewhere new, even if it’s just to the next town over. Let life look less Instagram-worthy and more like a sepia photo with uneven edges.

3. Laugh Through the Absurdity—It Helps (Promise)

Nothing tests your sense of humor like being ghosted by your former dog sitter. Yes, that happened to me in July when I thought, “Hmm, maybe this quirky guy who took care of my abuela’s Pomeranian is romantic potential.” Nothing says romance like, “Remember to give Matilda her medicine at 5 p.m.” Spoiler alert: he didn’t text back after two dates.

But it was during my post-ghosting pizza binge that I rediscovered the golden rule of Latin American resilience: when life gets ridiculous, turn it into a story. Tell it aloud as if it happened to your overly dramatic cousin Fernanda instead of you. I imagined my friends laughing and saying, “¡Qué horror! Who ghosts someone with a dog-related connection?” By the time I retold the tale later, I had shifted from devastated to amused.

Takeaway: Find the humor in your disasters. Not everything deserves a five-act tragedy; sometimes, it just deserves a loud laugh and a greasy slice of pizza.

4. Stop Waiting for Happiness to Knock on the Door (Especially If the Door is Flooded)

By September, I was still itching for resolution, as if one act of closure would bring the perfect ending my year refused to deliver: tidy, complete, gift-wrapped. But then one humid morning, I came across something my mother used to say, scribbled in an old notebook: “La felicidad no llega—se fabrica.” Happiness doesn’t arrive; you build it. Like carpentry, but with less sawdust.

I stopped scrolling through social media, comparing my rainy year to other people’s seemingly sunny lives. Instead, I started small. I re-read Neruda poems by candlelight. I cooked my abuela’s cazuela, letting the kitchen fill with the comforting smell of home despite my apartment still needing repairs. Each mundane thing I did felt like stacking bricks—an uneven but sturdy foundation toward something better.

Takeaway: Happiness isn’t some giant, elusive peak to scale. Look for it in the offbeat rhythm of your current life and assemble it moment by moment.

5. Forgive Yourself for the Mess

As the world flipped to December, I forgave myself for every mistake, misstep, and missed opportunity of the year. I wasn’t going to write the next great Latin American novel in my state of perpetual chaos, and that was okay. I forgave myself for eating too much instant ramen, for crying too long over text messages, for imagining a glorious love that wasn’t destined to last.

Forgiveness didn’t happen overnight—it sneaks in through the cracks, much like light at the end of a storm. But with it comes the gift of clarity: a bad year isn’t a bad person. And sometimes, storms flood the foundations not to ruin, but to rebuild.

Takeaway: Give yourself permission to be imperfect, dramatic, inconsistent, and deeply, wonderfully human. Growth doesn’t come with clean lines; it’s as messy and beautiful as a flamenco dancer’s kick.

So, the year everything fell apart? It was a masterpiece in disguise. Not pretty or polished, but real. I didn’t come out of it with all the answers, but I came out of it—stronger, bruised yet shining, like a poorly built picture frame that still manages, somehow, to hold its shape. If you’re in your own version of “everything falling apart,” remember this: you don’t need to have it all together to rebuild. A little mismatched wood, a goofy anecdote, and enough heart can carry you far.