Look around.
Here in the Northeast, everything is dying with theatrical flair.
The grass has gone sallow. The air smells like endings. The leaves are throwing their final, glorious tantrum – a fever-dream of reds and golds before they crisp, curl, and float back to earth.
Nature has no shame about falling apart. Only we do.
Birth? We celebrate it.
Life? We cling to it like a religion.
But death? No f*cking way.
I spent years trying to outrun endings.
I wanted to be the woman whose marble never cracked. Whose voice never shook. Whose life looked like one continuous sunrise.
But rupture doesn’t give a single solitary f*ck about your curated aesthetic. She shows up like a repo man for the soul and collects everything that’s past due.
And sister, she has come for me hard. Time and time again. Taking me apart with the precision of a divine demolition crew.
See, we do not learn how to fall apart in this culture. We aren’t taught how to let things die. Or that endings require ceremony, reverence, and surrender.
Instead, rupture is treated like an unseemly acquaintance – kept off the guest list, avoided at all costs, spoken of in whispers.
When in truth, she deserves a seat of honor at your table.
Why?
Because you cannot rupture without love. And you cannot love without risking rupture. That’s the bargain.
Many years ago, in an 18-month stretch, I lost my father.
Shortly thereafter, I stood beside the man I loved as his son nearly died in a terrible accident.
And then, I lost that man too.
Without warning, the life I’d built – and the life I was planning – evaporated. I was stunned. Shattered. Directionless. And utterly ill-equipped.
So I did the only thing I had the capacity to do: I followed nature’s lead and became a student of my own devastation.
I stopped performing competence. Stopped pretending I knew the choreography. Stopped insisting on forward motion like it was a moral virtue.
And instead, I let my insides slosh everywhere. I let my body conduct rituals my mind could not comprehend. I grieved in every dialect I knew: through tears, through movement, through sound, through stillness.
It felt exquisite and unendurable. Like being excavated and reborn at the same time. And it rooted me – deeper than any joy ever had – into my own womanhood.
My greatest fear was that such devastation meant I would never again reach for my desires, much less receive them. That something in me had broken permanently. That love – romantic, erotic, divine – would never find me again.
But in the rubble, I learned to hold a truth bigger than my fear. Here’s what rupture taught me while she held my face in her hands:
- Pain is never punishment – it is always in service to your desire.
- Rupture clears out the ghosts you’ve been living with.
- She strengthens the muscles you didn’t know you had.
- She births qualities in you that comfort never could.
- She drags you into your greatness by tearing away what keeps you small.
I stand, today, at a similar tipping point.
Peter and I have ended. My business is changing shape. Everything I’ve come to know is rearranging itself beneath my feet.
But here’s the difference, darling: Rupture is my consort now.
My teacher. My conspirator. My priestess of endings and beginnings.
She is the bright red, the sunlit yellow, the furious orange of the leaves outside my window – beauty born from letting go.
Death is upon us again, and somehow, it feels like love.
So, now it’s your turn…
How do you meet the moments that split your life open?
Do you collapse into “fine” and “I’m okay”?
Do you know how to navigate change, or does change take you hostage?
What were you taught about falling apart – and how is it shaping you now?
Tell me what you learned. Tell me what you survived. Tell me what you’re still carrying.
I read it all. Every word.
With so much love and fire,
