The summer solstice was a few weeks away, but for me, the longest day of the year came early. Specifically, it was mid-March when my partner of five years sat me down on our secondhand couch and told me they were leaving—both the relationship and Boulder. I didn’t see it coming. I was blindsided in the way you are when someone yanks the rug out, and you realize they’ve also taken the floorboards and the foundation. Before I could process that, a layoff notice appeared in my inbox like the world’s worst e-gift card. Two sucker punches, one after the other, and my life didn’t just fall apart—it spontaneously combusted. All this while my sourdough starter died, my kombucha exploded, and my houseplant collection started resembling a post-apocalyptic wasteland.
When life as you know it implodes, there’s an immediate scramble to pick up the pieces. But here’s what nobody tells you: sometimes, you first have to sit in the rubble for a while and figure out which pieces even matter. And in that process, I learned more about myself—and about rebuilding from scratch—than I ever thought possible.
The Unraveling: When Everything Feels Like a Country Song
Picture this: you’re standing in the grocery store, trying to decide between locally sourced oat milk or organic whole, and it hits you that every decision feels enormous because your foundation is gone. That was me, only I accidentally cried into the freezer section, and my tears froze on the carton lids. I was untethered, disillusioned, and low-key mad that no one handed me a guidebook on How To Function Post-Life Explosion.
Friends tried their best, bless them. I received a few well-meaning clichés. "One door closes, another opens!" (Spoiler: sometimes it's just a trapdoor.) Or “Everything happens for a reason!” which I would’ve appreciated if the reason was, say, free tacos. What nobody tells you is that heartbreak and upheaval don’t run on a fixed timeline or script. You can’t negotiate with them or skip to the plot points with personal growth and moving on. Grieving what’s lost is part of the deal—you just have to find a way to sit with it.
For me, that meant a lot of late nights journaling, listening to Brandi Carlile on repeat, and wearing the same sweatpants until they could legally vote. It was not glamorous, but then again, neither is growth.
The Rebuild: One Awkward Step at a Time
There’s this myth that once you decide to rebuild, the process is immediate and linear. Like, you say to yourself, “New chapter!” and, bam! You're suddenly thriving. Nope. The truth is, rebuilding your life feels less like an HGTV makeover and more like assembling a piece of IKEA furniture without a manual. Mostly, there’s confusion, sweat, and the occasional attempt to jam a wooden dowel into the wrong hole.
For me, the first piece of the puzzle was reconnecting with my roots—literally. Inspired by my dad’s conservation work, I started hiking again. Climbing up Green Mountain reminded me that life is filled with ups and downs, but the best view waits at the top (yes, it’s corny, but corny-saved-my-sanity). Being out in nature didn’t just ground me; it gave me perspective. The flat, predictable landscapes of my past were gone, sure, but maybe jagged peaks and uneven trails had their own kind of beauty.
Then, came therapy. Let me tell you, therapy deserves its own standing ovation. My therapist gently guided me to unpack the feelings I'd carefully stuffed into an emotional junk drawer. Through those sessions, I understood the importance of accepting imperfection—both in others and in myself—and learned that you’re never truly alone as long as you’re willing to ask for help.
What You Think You Lost vs. What You Gain
It’s funny, isn’t it? When pieces of your life fall apart, the first instinct is to mourn what’s gone. Some of that is valid: I missed the predictability of my old relationship and the safety net of a steady paycheck. But, as time passed, I realized I was also grieving a version of myself I thought I “needed” to be. The perfect partner. The guy who had it all figured out. Spoiler alert: That dude doesn’t exist—and thank goodness, because perfection is pretty boring.
What I gained in the wake of everything falling apart was a version of myself that was more patient, more intentional, and frankly, more fun. I took a pottery class and realized I actually like making wonky mugs that people can barely drink out of. I volunteered for a trail-cleaning initiative and made friends who taught me how to laugh in the rain, literal and metaphorical. Somewhere along the way, I picked up yoga—not because I’m good at it (I’m not) but because learning how to balance on one foot mirrored my attempt to balance my life.
And surprise! The layoff turned out to be an opportunity. Without the grind of 9-to-5 conservation work, I had the space to write again. I leaned into it like you lean into your best friend during karaoke night—and now, here we are.
Lessons for Anyone Holding the Rubble
If you, dear reader, are standing amidst your own metaphorical wreckage, here are a few takeaways from someone who built back something sturdier (and weirdly beautiful) from the ashes:
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Let Things Fall Apart Completely
It’s okay to admit what’s broken. You don’t have to duct-tape the pieces together just because you feel like you should. Give yourself permission to grieve, even if that means crying into Ben & Jerry’s straight from the pint. -
Reconnect with What Grounds You
When your world spins out, find your anchors. For me, it was hiking. For you, it might be sketching, running, or baking absurdly complicated sourdough. Whatever lets your brain breathe, do that. -
Ask for Help Without Shame
Nobody expects you to rebuild a skyscraper alone. Reach out to friends, family, or professionals. Let someone hold the ladder while you climb. -
Fail Spectacularly at Something New
This is how you rediscover joy. Whether it’s painting, dancing, or salsa-making, embrace the process of messing up—and learning anyway. -
Trust the Slow Rebuild
Some days feel like progress, others feel like you’re treading water. Both are valid. Life’s not a sprint; it’s more like a meandering hike, complete with blisters and the occasional breathtaking view.
Ending on a High Note
Here’s the thing about rebuilding: it’s not about recreating what you had—it’s about discovering what fits now. That year taught me resilience, sure, but it also taught me to laugh at the absurdity of bad dates and spilled kombucha. It taught me how to sit alone under the stars and not feel lonely. And, most importantly, it taught me that falling apart isn’t the end—it’s the beginning of a story you never saw coming.
So if your life feels like it’s imploding, know this: the pieces you pick up might just make something more beautiful than you could ever imagine. And when you find yourself crying in the freezer aisle, take a breath and remember: you’ve got this.
