the art of falling apart

a masterclass in disintegration

Perhaps it’s a byproduct of midlife, but I’ve been thinking a lot about a book I read a few years ago: How We Live is How We Die by Pema Chödrön. Ani Pema, an American-born Tibetan Buddhist teacher, is an ordained nun and the author of several books on Buddhist teachings and practices. Her work offers compassionate guidance on navigating difficult times. And while I wouldn’t call myself a Buddhist, I have often sought refuge in Buddhist principles—and in Pema’s teachings.

When I speak of refuge, I don’t mean escapism into some spiritual La-La land, nor am I talking about a grand retreat in the Maldives. I mean refuge in the deep recesses of one’s own heart, where the real work—the hardest work—begins.

In How We Live is How We Die, she writes: “How we relate to things falling apart right now foreshadows how we'll relate to things falling apart when we die.” Naturally, I asked myself: How do I relate to things falling apart? How do I relate to transition, to change? It’s a privilege to sit with these questions, to allow them to inhabit space in my mind—especially when so many are simply trying to make ends meet. But if I have that privilege, then I must ask: How comfortable am I with impermanence? With the truth that everything is in flux—that life itself is liminal?

Whenever a period of transition arrives at my door, a storm of questions follows. Along with them comes the instinct to armor up, to prepare for battle—not against the world, but against the part of me that clings to identity, ego, neurosis. The inner critic, the judge—the part of me that would rather point fingers, project, and blame than sit with discomfort, with fear—fear of abandonment, fear of loss, fear of letting go. And when the armor is fully fastened, there it is: the impulse to run. Because to stay—to sit in the dread, to face the parts of myself I have deemed unlovable—is far harder.

For those of us who have realized that wearing a mask is no longer tenable, I’ve noticed something: sometimes, even knowing that truth, it still feels easier to put one back on—or to fasten the armor we thought we had laid down. To hide from the knowing that we’ve outgrown unhealthy family systems, that certain friendships existed for a reason but only for a season. Because at the core of it all, most of us are simply longing to be seen, heard, felt, accepted, understood—loved.

In these uncertain times, it feels essential to ask: How do we relate to things falling apart? And just as importantly, how do I choose to live—knowing that, inevitably, some things will?

That question—wild and alive in me—feels urgent. Maybe because I’ve reached a place where I just want to experience joy, connection, fleeting moments of peace and contentment—without gripping so tightly, without trying to control what comes next. Because I’ve spent years reckoning with the trauma of growing up with a parent who battled addiction and thankfully overcame it—only to find myself, years later, in love with someone who struggled with an addiction. And what it took to finally let things fall apart in order to save myself.

Words—both written and spoken—have been my constant companions. Poetry on pages, lyrics in songs, definitions, etymologies, blueprints of meaning. Words that build myths, universes, stories upon stories. Words that transcend space and time, that echo something beyond language itself.

As I sit with these questions, I wonder: Is this an attempt to reconcile my mortality?

And I can’t help but ask: Have the past two decades—of writing, meditation, yoga, cognitive behavioral therapy, studying human behavior, and exploring the Buddhist path—been a kind of spiritual warriorship? A hero’s journey, if you will? After all, aren’t I the protagonist of my own story, choosing my adventure as I go—questioning my values, challenging my judgments, living, loving, and facing adversity as best I can?

Yeah—how do I want to live? Now that is a question worth asking. Perhaps a story worth sharing.

© Alana Foy 2025