Finding Beauty in Life’s Fractures

Pondering.

Mental health experts often speak of five major life stressors—the kind that hit like an earthquake, shaking you to your very foundation. Over the past four years, I haven’t just encountered them; I’ve weathered their tremors, stumbled through the aftershocks, and am still navigating the rubble they left behind.

They say, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  But here's the truth: that's *insert indelicate expletive*.  What doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger—it leaves you fragile, like cracked foundations after a quake, prone to buckling under the slightest weight.  Trauma is like that.  It rocks, weakens, disorientates, discombobulates, shakes, and shatters. The depression that follows is the dust cloud that lingers, settling into every corner, making it hard to breathe or see a clear path forward.

Trauma transforms in unimaginable ways, like surviving an earthquake that leaves your mental landscape unrecognizable. Disoriented, I stumble through this reshaped terrain, searching for a path to my old vitality, pluck, and optimism. The truth is, I’m still navigating, still trying to rebuild, one unsteady step at a time.

These days, I spend too much time in introspection, wandering the tangled pathways of my mind. It’s not peaceful reflection—it’s like pacing a maze, retracing steps, searching for meaning in what’s already broken. Trauma pulls you inward, forcing you to examine every fissure and crevice. I often wonder if I’ll ever find my way out, back to feeling vibrant and connected.

I’ll bet you’re thinking, "Dude! You’re bumming me out. What does your trauma dump have to do with New Year’s Eve?"  Well, as the clock struck midnight, I wasn’t celebrating with a pricey bottle of bubbly and an Irishman with sparkling wit—I was sitting quietly, lost in thought, pondering the kind of resolutions you make when your life feels wobbly.  I wasn't thinking about big goals or bold dreams, but about finding the strength to keep moving forward, one shaky step at a time.

Resolutions.

Wrapped in the comforting embrace of my flannel sheets and down-filled comforter, I considered resolutions of years long past—the bold promises to reinvent myself, to be braver, stronger, and happier. I mentally compiled a list.

Lose twenty pounds.  
Save money. 
Find a new job.

Write the next great American novel.
Make new friends.
Heal my broken heart. 

Find a loyal partner who digs being with me.

Practice mindfulness. 

Lean into my faith.

Laugh again.

All of the above.

(The truth? I had more resolutions than threads in my Scandinavian comforter.  I was buried under them, smothered by the weight of all the ways I thought I needed to change. I didn't share them all—partly to preserve my tattered pride and partly to spare you, dear reader, from secondhand embarrassment.)

How do I decide which aspects of my life need the most attention? Do I focus on what feels broken—the places where the fractures have formed? Or do I search for opportunities to grow, to build something entirely new?  Do I focus on the external— joining a gym to get my post-divorce, middle-aged bod more swipe-worthy?  Or do I focus on the internal —regaining my resilience and inner peace by visiting an ashram, all-inclusive wellness spa, or the clearance aisle at Molton Brown (because nothing soothes a restless spirit like finding a discount candle that promises to smell like Seaside Serenity)?

Two nights ago, flat on my back, I wrestled with my resolutions while neighborhood hooligans risked their limbs—and their parents’ homeowners insurance policies—with nerve-rattling fireworks.

Quitter.

Emerging from my flannel cocoon, I tumbled down the digital rabbit hole of New Year’s resolutions and stumbled across a Forbes article that confirmed what I’d always suspected: like female orgasms, most resolutions remain elusive. staggering 91% fail to stick with their goals, 23% quit by the first week, and 43% throw in the towel before the second Friday of January—a day so notorious, it’s even earned a name: Quitter’s Day.

Quitter's Day!  For feck's sake! 

Evidently, New Year’s resolutions are a lot like my marriage. They kick off with champagne-fueled optimism, grand promises, and the smug certainty that you are a winner. But give it a few weeks, and reality sets in. The sparkle fades, the effort feels exhausting, and you start questioning every decision that brought you here. Some resolutions survive; others crash and burn in a messy breakup with your gym membership—and a pint of ice cream as your rebound.

Reframe.

As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I wondered if this year needed a different approach—not a checklist of self-improvements, but a simple resolve to survive, to steady myself, and perhaps, to rediscover the pieces of me I thought were lost. My thoughts turned to smaller, quieter hopes: finding balance in the chaos and learning to trust the ground beneath me again.

It’s no longer about chasing perfection or checking off a list of goals. Instead, it’s about embracing the cracks and learning to live with the imperfections—because, perhaps, those cracks don’t weaken the foundation but give it character. Like the Japanese art of kintsugi, where broken pottery is mended with gold, maybe the fractures in my life can become part of my story, not something to hide but something to honor. Rather than sweeping up the shards, I want to hold them carefully, study their jagged edges, and find a way to piece them together into something uniquely mine.