No one warned me how quietly perimenopause would slip into my life, or how deeply it would affect my mind. I expected hot flushes, maybe irregular cycles but I didn’t expect the emotional shifts: the sudden anxiety, the days when sadness sat just under my skin, the moments when I felt strangely invisible even to myself.
It wasn’t dramatic, It was subtle, like a slow unraveling version of me I had known for so long. Some mornings I’d wake up steady, others I’d feel shaken before my feet touched the floor. I kept wondering, why am I like this now? It took me a long time to understand that my hormones, the ones that shaped so much of my inner world for decades, were changing their rhythm and my mood was changing with them.
What made it harder was that life didn’t pause to give me space. There were kids to raise, people to care for, work to show up to, expectations to meet and I was trying to hold everything together while feeling like I was coming apart in places no one could see.
But here’s what I’m learning, nothing is wrong with me, this is a transition, messy, emotional and clarifying. The more I talk about it, the less alone I feel. Small things help: rest when I can manage it, gentle movement, honest conversations, and reaching out for support when the weight becomes too much to carry alone.
Perimenopause hasn’t taken anything from me. If anything, it’s pushing me to see myself more clearly, to soften, to show myself a kind of care I’ve put off for years. I’m not disappearing. I’m changing, and that change deserves tenderness.