By March, I had stopped answering phone calls. By July, I was Googling “how to swaddle yourself in a weighted blanket.” And by November, I was having a full-blown existential crisis in the hiking boot aisle at REI because the salesperson asked me, “What kind of adventure are you planning?” Turns out, 2023 had plans for me instead, and they didn’t include much adventuring—unless we count dragging myself through heartbreak, identity crises, and bad takeout as an adventure.

But if I’ve learned anything from growing up around Idaho’s endless pine-lined trails, it’s that falling doesn’t mean you’re done. It means you’ve got to brush off the dirt, patch up the scrapes, and keep going. And even if the trail before you feels unmarked and treacherous, there’s still scenery worth savoring.

So here’s my year of falling apart—and the surprisingly beautiful way I started putting myself back together.

The Rockslide: When Life Hits All at Once

If you've ever driven through the winding roads around Coeur d’Alene on a rainy day, you know what I'm talking about—a sudden landslide that blocks everything in your path. That's pretty much how the spring of 2023 felt.

Let’s set the stage: I had been in a long-term relationship with someone who was ruggedly outdoorsy, pescatarian, and could pitch a tent faster than I could say, “Where’s the mosquito spray?” We talked about moving to Missoula, adopting a rescue dog named Clementine, and building a life that sounded straight out of Outside magazine.

Then, one Sunday morning, over burnt coffee and a The Last of Us rerun, I got the dreaded, “I don’t think we’re on the same path anymore” conversation. You know the one. It was like someone kicked my pack of carefully laid plans off a cliff.

Oh, and did I mention my job at the conservation nonprofit was evolving in a way that “freelancer” started sounding less like a dream and more like a real possibility? Add to that a health scare in the family, and I was officially overwhelmed. My life resembled a tent I couldn’t figure out how to assemble—messy, frustrating, and definitely missing some pieces.

The Off-Trail Wander: Finding Myself (Whether I Liked It or Not)

Here’s the thing about breakups: they don’t politely stay in their lane. They’re like that one aggressive seagull at the beach—loud, messy, and determined to steal your snacks (and your self-esteem). For weeks, I ruminated on questions like, “What does this say about me?” and “Am I approachable in a way that invites rejection?” Somewhere between therapy and crying in my car to Fleetwood Mac, I realized my self-worth didn’t depend on someone else choosing to stay.

So, I did what anyone in crisis mode would do: I leaned into my strengths. I pulled out my hiking boots, packed a thermos of chai tea, and headed toward the nearest trailhead. Being surrounded by nature—the sturdy pines, the sound of the wind rattling through the branches, the creak of the forest under my boots—reminded me that even when things feel unstable, the Earth keeps steadying itself.

One particularly therapeutic moment occurred when I solo-camped by the lake for the first time—a night that taught me two things. First, raccoons are much bolder than I remembered. Second, even in solitude and fear, I could rely on myself. Every small decision I made that weekend—how to build the fire, navigate the trail, and keep my granola bars out of critter reach—felt like a victory. It reminded me that I've got a well of inner strength I hadn’t yet tapped into.

Patchwork Progress: Life Lessons from DIY Repairs

It wasn’t all sunlit mountain ridges, though. Some days, “progress” looked more like Netflix marathons and a questionable number of cinnamon rolls for dinner. But over time, I turned to smaller rituals that planted seeds of balance into my life.

Here’s what I learned about rebuilding: 1. Get Comfortable Being Uncomfortable: When life leaves you exposed, you’ve got two options—throw on a waterproof layer and keep moving, or let the storm soak you through. Spoiler: I tried both. Some days, I sat with my discomfort, journaling at the little dock near my childhood home until the words stopped pouring out. Other days, I called a friend and didn’t worry about “sounding fine.” You’re not fine yet—you’re healing.

  1. Nurture Hobbies (Even the Bad Ones): Turns out, I have the ceramic skills of a distracted raccoon. But, hey, squeezing clay distracts you from your problems like nothing else. From making lopsided vases to trying (and failing) to knit my own scarf, hobbies were less about results and more about the act of creating. Don’t worry if the process is ugly—growth rarely looks like an Instagram post.

  2. Let Your Priorities Evolve: Questioning what (and who) is worth your energy is part of any rebuild. I started asking myself what fueled me: Was I hiking because I wanted solitude or because I felt guilty if I didn’t? Was I dedicating time to relationships that nourished me, or was I just afraid of changing the status quo? Small, intentional choices today lead to the kind of life you want to wake up to.

The Journey Back to Me

By fall, life was starting to do its thing again—the thing where it evens out, like dust settling after a long storm. I wasn’t magically healed, but I no longer felt like every small inconvenience was a personal attack from the universe.

I applied to small creative writing fellowships, made a habit of calling my mom during sunset walks, and tried dating again. Yes, there was a hilariously awkward first date offering earnest conversation about mushroom foraging (we paired better as friends than partners). I said “yes” to spontaneous dinners and “no” to anything that drained me—life grew lighter, even if I wasn’t.

On one of my last hikes of the year, I rounded a bend on the Mineral Ridge Scenic Trail and nearly stumbled. Before me stretched Lake Coeur d’Alene, the late autumn sun gilding the water gold. Wind-rustled leaves danced along my path. It hit me, harder than the shoes the REI guy eventually sold me: It had been one of my hardest years. But it was also mine. I’d built something that felt rooted—something as resilient as nature itself.

The Road Home

So, what did 2023 teach me? Falling apart is scary and messy—you’ll cry at unexpected moments, and metaphorically (or literally) eat cereal in bed for far too long. But it’s also the foundation for something profound. Putting yourself back together forces you to reevaluate, to curate, and to realize that nothing in life—not relationships, careers, or hike-perfect boots—is perfect. But they don’t need to be.

If you’re in your “falling apart” season right now, here’s my advice: embrace the mess without trying to fix it all at once. Build slowly, like tending to a garden after a storm. Trust in your own resilience, in the same way a forest grows again after fire.

Most importantly, take that REI salesperson’s advice. Plan an adventure—even a small one—and trust that the journey you’re on is worth it.

Because even when life falls apart, you’ll find a way through. One uneven, rock-filled trail at a time.