As if I thought 2024 couldn’t get any worse, 2025 reared its ugly head—I got dumped. The person I thought was my support system, my rock through 2024’s personal challenges, namely losing my dad and ending the year with a sucker punch losing Terry—now upended a new type of loss and grief. I’ll spare you the details because it doesn’t matter, but it wasn’t my choice and for a truly despicable reason unbeknownst to me. Trust shattered. Frustration, anger, and sadness set in as I knew never to ignore my gut feelings again. But thankfully, he showed me who he really was all along.

Thank you, next.

So, fuck it—I went snowboarding like I had originally planned. A nice storm system swept through SoCal and the temperature dropped just right to create perfect conditions for local mountains. I didn’t have the energy to schlep to Mammoth or June and keeping it simple sounded like just the ticket. It would be my first time driving the icy Highway 38 up to Big Bear—again, I say fuck it.

After so many “fuck it’s,” my Subaru was packed, no need for caffeine on the anxiety diet, so I had that high alert taken care of. Just pop in an audiobook on relationships, because fuck it, let’s learn from this 3.5-year disaster and see what the mountains bring me. Several tears, affirmations, and light bulb moments later, I pulled off to the side of the now slush-filled Highway 38 to put cables on my front tires. The guy selling them, of course, said, “It’s pretty bad up there, you’re gonna need these, even though you have all-wheel drive.”

 

Guess what—fuck it.

 

It only took me seven miles into my very cautious 42-mile drive on the windy highway to realize—I am so glad I put cables on my tires. Layers of ice and snow clung to the concrete like a grieving 40-year-old clinging to any semblance of hope, with relationship expert Matthew Hussey blaring through my speakers serving as the all-weather tires. Don’t lose your mind, stay focused, you will get through this, I kept telling myself, realizing I was speaking to not only the nerve-wracking drive but also, my newly established grief. White knuckled, jaw clenched, I took turns at 10 MPH, no shame because the person behind me was doing the same. Snow and fog blinded me—there were moments when I could barely see the road. My windshield wipers started to stick and I had to PEE.

There’s something extra humiliating about getting dumped at 40. Sure, 31 or 36, 37 even—but the last trace of your 30s to be drained—it gets to a point where you feel like a damn fool. Especially after you thought, and for legit reasons, things were one way, when they actually weren’t—but fuck it, how was I supposed to know?

My car fishtailed across the tiny road and I quickly snapped back to reality—a near panic attack atop my already-heightened nervous system. Where was that self-soothing chapter?

 

I now stand atop a mountain of grief.

 

Mr. Hussey, I must exchange you for some form of music.

 

Every song. Though honestly, he criticized most of my music, but still, every song, even if he hated my tastes, bore some kind of memory.

Relieved as I made it literally out of the windy woods and into Big Bear, never so thankful to see traffic lights. I turned into Snow Summit, in the back of my mind humiliated because he would’ve made fun of this small mountain and angry because I should have been snowboarding with him at Beaver Creek in Colorado for the first time. He knew I always wanted to do that, but SIKE.

I carefully parked in the tight, snow-filled parking lot and started to get myself into literal gear. A lump formed in my throat—ah fuck, we have matching gear. We were THAT couple. And worst of all, I like my gear. It’s good gear and he helped me pick it out. Guess I gotta find a new jacket. Forcing myself through the parking lot, I trudged through two feet of powder with a scowl catching whiffs of beer and weed and ski bums freaking out.

I kept fighting the need to run back to my car and collapse in my front seat, donning a fit of tears. Betrayal really sucks.

I spied a chairlift—take me to the top, IDGAF. Scooped me up into the grey abyss—it was what you might refer to as “nuking.” Small snowballs quickly collected on my lap during my solo chairlift ride. No smiles, my face felt as cold as the frosty air. How am I ever going to drive back in this, I thought.

At the top, the signage was kinda poor, I couldn’t make heads or tails of where to go, but again: FUCK IT.

Cruising up and down the mountain, I met a guy who shared a foreign feeling: empathy. He showed me around the mountain and we tackled a few black and blue runs. Any trace of flirtation was quickly dismissed by my very raw, heartbroken feels. He knew the game—be the friend. And thank you, sir. I needed a real hug because, as far as I was concerned, the blizzard swept into Orange County a few days ago, ‘a-la’ black compensator truck and a 6’3 frame.

As we made our way down the mountain again, a few cracks of thunder set fire to my speed. Shit, that was wild. I could picture the headline: “Salty ass woman disintegrates while snowboarding local mountains.” I could see my ex, laughing at the thought.

The drive home was scarier. I clung to every ray of daylight, still listening to Mr. Hussey’s encouraging and empathetic advice on toxic traits. One icy turn at a time, I told myself: Nice and slow, there’s no rush. A terrified woman in the SUV behind me followed my every move.

I made it home with an actual appetite and got a decent night’s rest for the first time in a week, with my new friend checking in to see if I got home okay. Sure, my body arrived just fine, but as The Pixies ask, “Where is my mind?”

The next day, I woke up and hit the road again, this time taking Highway 18, which felt even more sketchy. The roads were nothing but pure snow and ice—guess I was glad he got me those all-weather tires at the beginning of our relationship. Love bombing has its perks. I maneuvered my way through snow and slush and stalled cars and eventually parked in overflow parking—ugh crowds. I hoped they could behave themselves.

A new day, a new way, I thought. I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want to do today. No friends, just me. Fuck it. Couples rode the chairlifts, holding hands, laughing and helping each other down the mountain and a pang of sadness washed over me, realizing I’m once again on the outside looking in. I was in the “ugh gross” bitter phase, but secretly, was also thinking about how adorable they were and how much I wanted that.

 

My goal that day: get lost.

 

Let’s do this how I want to do it. Every run, blue, black, green, fast or slow, I was there. Not needing to keep up with anyone, not worrying about anyone else but me. I rocked up and down the mountain more than a headbanger at a metal show. And guess what, I had ONE bad fall—thankful for my helmet.

But one sweet run had me flying through untouched powder and I said beneath my steamy breath, “Now I know why they say ‘there are no friends on powder days.’” I whooped and hollered to myself as I flew past a flat section, smiling ear to ear. Man, who cared if I had the same gear as him, who cared if I didn’t make it to Colorado? I’m here now and I’m doing the damn thing and having the best time on my own. And I’m actually doing a great job if I do say so myself.

That day, the chains were off, and the sun poked through the clouds to melt my intrusive thoughts away, if only for a few hours. Grief is a process and I’m ready to tackle another mountain once again. Small but mighty baby steps toward my independence—I drove through ice and snow storms, had a blast cruising the small mountain and thought of all the people who love and support me. There’s a lot! I’m coming out on top of this mountain, weathering through the storm, focused and fearless, and I get to do what I want for the first time in over a decade.

 

Cliché as it might sound, I thought: I DON’T NEED NO MAN.

 

I just want (a good) one…eventually.