About a decade ago, I found myself unable to get out of bed. Not from laziness, but from a heaviness I couldn’t explain. Freshly laid off from my career as a professional ballet dancer — the only life I had ever known — I was suddenly adrift. A roommate nudged me to see a doctor, sensing something was deeply wrong. Within minutes of being asked about my symptoms, I broke down into uncontrollable tears.
Ballet had been my world since childhood. Inspired by my grandmother, a graceful flamenco dancer, I grew up spinning around living rooms to the same song on repeat, showing up early to class, staying late to stretch, and obsessively perfecting every movement. Dance was my ritual, my identity, my everything. When that identity was stripped away, I didn’t know who I was without it.
To make matters worse, the timing felt cruel. While my high school friends were graduating college, starting relationships, and decorating cute apartments, I was… lost. No degree. No job. No clear direction. Out of desperation and determination, I chose to re-enroll in school and chip away at finishing my degree. To pay the bills, I picked up a retail sales job — the closest thing I could find to working in fashion in West Palm Beach.
I was grateful for work, but life outside of it was bleak. My apartment, though blessedly rent-controlled, was falling apart: mold crept through the walls, the A/C broke during the hottest months, and the carpet hadn’t been replaced since the 1970s. Neighbors asked invasive questions, laundry went mysteriously missing, and the mismatched furniture — mostly hand-me-downs and garage sale finds — made it feel less like a home and more like a stopover. My one prized possession was a pale blue Pottery Barn chair I had splurged on for $75. That chair became my safe haven.
I was also in a relationship at the time, hoping to “find myself” through another person, but I only grew more aware that what I really needed was solitude. Ironically, even the Florida sunshine and palm trees felt heavy — a reminder of the happiness I no longer had. The dream I had sacrificed so much for, ballet, seemed to have left me with nothing but heartache.
Eventually, I did graduate, though older than my peers, and started work as a secretary-slash-PR assistant. My boss didn’t think I was capable of being more, of writing, or of managing social media, so I was boxed into a role I quickly outgrew. Friends moved on to second jobs, engagements, and starter homes while I quietly wrestled with the gnawing feeling that my life was stuck on pause.
Then came one unremarkable night in 2014 that turned into the beginning of everything. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and I was alone — no parties, no friends to watch with. Just me, a can of tomato soup, and my second-hand chair. Miserable, I cried again, feeling defeated by the life I had built. And then, mid-game, a commercial flickered on: “Build a website for $50!”
It was cheesy. Silly, even. But in my fragile state, it felt like a sign. I perked up, wiped my tears, and listened to the pitch. That night, sprawled across my awful carpet, I researched words that felt beautiful, hopeful. I stumbled across “bungalow.” Something about its warmth stuck with me. Add “style,” I thought. Within minutes, I had bought the domain The Style Bungalow.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that night set me on a completely different path. Still, what followed wasn’t a fairy tale. In fact, I call those years after “The Dark Years.” Freelancing broke me down financially. Heartbreaks piled on. Car accidents happened. Jobs fell through. At one point, I was told I might need a pacemaker. Life tested me in ways I didn’t think I could survive.
But somehow, through all the tears, through nights of anxiety and loneliness, I held on. I clung to that ounce of hope that happiness was still possible. My 20s weren’t the glossy, Instagram-worthy decade my friends experienced. They were brutal, raw, and often devastating. But they shaped me. They carved resilience into my bones.
Looking back now, I see that night with the Super Bowl commercial not as a silly coincidence, but as a turning point. It was the spark I needed to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was more out there for me than what I had lost.
If I survived that chapter, I remind myself, I can survive anything.
