What do you do when the life you’ve built starts to unravel like an old sweater snagged on a nail? For me, it began with wine—because of course it did. As someone with roots in Napa Valley, it’s pretty on brand. But this wasn’t a poetic “sip and stare wistfully at the sunset” kind of situation. It was a flurry of corks, invoices, and a party bus full of bachelorette revelers who mistook the verdant calm of our wine-tasting room for a Vegas pregame.

That might sound like a Saturday in the Yountville region, but it was only a piece of my chaotic puzzle. In the same 12 months, I left a long-term relationship, lost a consulting gig that felt like part of my identity, and nearly sold my vintage Peugeot bike out of stress-induced desperation. (Don’t worry, it lives to see another picnic-filled day.) If there’s one thing I learned about tough times, it’s this: When everything falls apart, you find out what you’re really made of—and also that crying about your problems over a $300 bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape is objectively expensive therapy.

Here’s how I stitched my life back together—one awkward lesson, revelatory meal, and questionable playlist choice at a time.

The Break-Up: When Love Turns Sour Like Over-Fermented Grapes

First, there was the breakup. Seven years. Enough time to perfect a couples' Cabernet blend or memorize each other's quirks down to how much basil belongs in a tomato confit (hint: “enough to taste” is not an answer). The split wasn’t dramatic—no one cheated, no wine glasses shattered—but the weight of growing apart hit harder than we expected. Parting ways was like pulling apart vines too tangled to separate cleanly; everything else went with them.

If you’ve been in a long-term relationship, you know how the end seeps into every corner of your life. My meals tasted flat. My sleep felt shallow and restless. Worst of all, every tiny thing—grocery lists, shared playlists, wine pairings we both swore by—felt like a landmine. Do I ditch the Sancerre memories, or just drink through them? (Spoiler: I did both.)

Here’s what helped, though. Every day, I did one small thing to reclaim myself. I changed little rituals—a different coffee cup, new flowers on the table, a solo Friday night watching French New Wave films paired with a smirk-worthy supermarket Sauvignon Blanc. I won’t lie: It’s not the grand gestures that heal you. It’s the minor rebellions against whatever you and your ex built together that bring you back to yourself.

The Work Wobble: When Identity Is Just Another Thing to Lose

Next came the career curveball. My favorite vineyard—a place where I’d spent years building stories around terroir and teaching visitors why rosé doesn’t, in fact, just taste like strawberries—decided that their “branding goals” no longer required me. Translation? Budget cuts. Markets shifted. The usual suspects of corporate breakups.

I’d wrapped so much of my identity around this role that losing it felt like being dumped again—in fact, the timing meant this blow was the rebound breakup. What are you supposed to do when your passion suddenly isn’t paying the bills? Do you sink into nights of boxed wine or pivot harder than Naomi Campbell in six-inch stiletto boots? (I, unfortunately, tried both methods.)

Of course, losing a job doesn’t mean losing your skills. Once I stopped panicking, I realized I could still craft stories. I could still discuss wine’s acidity like a poet in love. I just had to do it for new audiences. The moral? When the world doesn’t need your dream exactly the way you imagined, it doesn’t mean you stop being valuable. You simply uncork a new strategy.

Lean On Community: (But Don’t Let Them Stage an Intervention Without Drinks)

Here’s a harsh truth I hate admitting: I’m stubborn. I liked to believe I could glue my life back together with sheer willpower, earthy Malbecs, and the company of introspective playlists (“do I NEED another Bon Iver track today, Briar?” The answer was yes). But even a fiercely independent soul like me has to admit that surviving a tough year takes people. A tribe. Ride-or-die friends who show up with a bottle in one hand and a sense of humor in the other.

My friends—even my parents—were a lifeline when things felt darkest. There was the childhood friend who came over to cook croissants from scratch and pour sparkling wine, giggling like we’d just skipped high school chemistry again. There was the casual acquaintance who turned into my go-to hiking buddy, as we stomped through vineyards while venting over life’s curveballs. There were the endless texts, memes, and shared orders of truffle fries because calories don’t count when you’re healing. Letting people in wasn’t just humbling—it was necessary.

Rebuilding with Intention (And Maybe a Bit of Butter)

One random Thursday, in the dead of winter, I decided to make coq au vin just for myself. It wasn’t social media fodder. It wasn’t to impress anyone. On the stove, the garlic and shallots sizzled in their own alchemy, and I unintentionally isolated what had been saving me all along: food. Not the production line meals of breakups, or the sad salads I tried between consulting gigs, but real, slow-cooked, bowl-licking food. Me food.

When life breaks down, re-centering your rituals becomes a form of therapy. Whether it’s cooking, journaling, planting an herb garden, or perfecting your playlists, the everyday activities that bring you joy—pure joy!—are like scaffolding. They're non-negotiable. In my case, reconnecting with slow meals and flavors helped give my chaotic, broken year a rhythm again.

By the time spring rolled around, I wasn’t just surviving. I was thriving. Friday nights became “Briar dinners” again, complete with mismatched plates, charred bread, and silky reds sipped too late into the night. I started pitching ideas to editors with a ferocity I hadn’t felt since my first published piece, and I rode my restored Peugeot bike like fresh air could heal everything. (Spoiler: it can.)

The Big Takeaway: Life’s Recipe Is a Work in Progress

So here’s the real scoop, or what I like to call my simplified recipe for surviving when everything in your life falls painfully apart: Embrace the mess. Lean on your people. Reclaim rituals that remind you of you. Take long walks and quiet sips of wine, preferably in good company (even if it’s just yourself). And start small—one habit, one moment of joy, one deep-fried bite of optimism at a time.

As for me, I’m okay with the fact that life isn’t a finished vintage, ready to impress judges. It’s more like a biodynamic field, messy and alive, asking for the right amount of care and attention. And guess what? That’s enough.

Cheers to all who might need to hear that, one sip (or step) at a time.