Health
Hot flashes at 3 a.m., brain fog in meetings, mood shifts nobody warned you about — menopause is a transition, not a character flaw. Talk openly here.
The printout in the chair pocket still talked like a study from twenty years ago was the whole story. They said we can wait. HRT sat in the room like a third person nobody would finish introducing. I was not in a client meeting. I was not holding a start date. I was holding a wor...
They looked at the fact I still bleed and used an age like a stamp. Too young. The word stayed in the hallway. The calendar had already started lying — shorter, then a surprise, then the old length again. I did not have a quiz in my pocket. I had a still-bleeding sentence and a b...
Three a.m. The sheet is stuck to my chest and then I am cold in the same minute. I peel it back. The other person in the bed does not wake. This is not a client meeting. There is no bathroom performance of fine. There is a pile of damp cotton and a clock that thinks the night is...
Hot flash in a client meeting yesterday. Face on fire, shirt sticking, brain gone blank mid-sentence. I excused myself. Bathroom. Cold water. Took ten minutes to look normal again. Client was fine — I am not fine with my body doing this on a schedule nobody warned me about. Brain...
The mug was already chipped. I heard the sound it made in the sink and the anger that arrived did not match the object. Kitchen, not a conference table. I stood with the tap running longer than the mug needed. Nobody had put this on the leaflet next to hot flashes. Did a small th...
The same bottle is still in the drawer. It used to be enough. Last week we stopped for a reason that was not cramps and not a fight. Sandpaper, then a pause, then I put the bottle back like it had failed a job it used to hold. The next visit asked about flashes. Nobody asked abou...
Dairy aisle. The list was already in my hand. The ordinary word — the one for the carton I buy every week — would not arrive. I stood there looking like a person who could read. I was not in a meeting. I was not mid-email. I was holding the paper and the paper would not speak. Di...
Two bleeds in a window that used to hold one. The app still draws a tidy circle. I used to be bored by the calendar. Now I pack for a week that will not stay in its lane. This is not a gap that stranded me on a trip. This is too soon, again, with the same supplies I thought I had...
Last spring’s work trousers still hang in the same place. The waist is a new map. The bathroom scale has not moved the way the waist has. I was not in an endocrinology room watching a number talk first. I was standing in work clothes that still buttoned last season and do not now...
Green light. The car behind me was already a sentence. My hands stayed on the wheel as if the intersection had become a different country. This is not aisle four. This is not a mug in a sink. There was no client meeting and no cart to abandon. There was a light that used to be or...
Morning. The pickle jar. Knuckles that used to open it without a conversation. I ran it under the tap and still had to ask my other hand. This is not anger at a mug. This is not a face on fire in a meeting. This is a lid, and a set of fingers that arrived older than the rest of t...
The sheet is dry. I checked. The clock is still doing the night without me. Nobody flipped a wet switch. Nobody started an email I already sent. There is no pile of damp cotton and no Monday to rehearse. There is a dry bed and a night that will not be used. Did the night stay unu...
They took the ovaries. The papers went home in a plastic bag. That night the heat did not wait for a perimenopause year. There was no lying calendar to argue with first. I was not holding a cousin’s “that will end it.” I was holding a bag and a night that arrived as if it had bee...
The pamphlet’s face was red. Mine has not done that. They still opened with flashes. I had a calendar that had started lying. I had mornings that arrived tired without a fire to point at. I sat with the paper feeling like they had the wrong drawing. Did the word still arrive for...
Two a.m. Forearm. The urge to brush something off, and there was nothing there. Not a rash I could point at. Not a colleague telling me I looked tired. Not a bottle from a drawer that used to be enough. There was skin that felt occupied and a visit that still only knew how to ask...
