A dramatic retelling of a hormonal haunting.

Let me set the scene.

It’s 2AM. My husband is snoring like a buzzsaw beside me, Samuel the cat is perched on my chest making biscuits like he’s kneading out my sanity, and I’m staring into the cold blue light of my phone screen whispering:

“Is this menopause or am I being spiritually attacked?”

Y’all. I’m not even kidding.

Menopause is not gently tapping me on the shoulder. She is kicking down the door, flipping the light switch, and shouting, “Wake up, witch!”

And wake up I did. At 2AM. 2:17AM. 3:41AM. Again at 4:09AM. I now exist on three hours of broken sleep, two iced coffees, and pure unfiltered confusion.

Let’s review the symptoms currently terrorizing me like a one-woman haunted house:

💤Insomnia: Sleep? I don’t know her.
😵‍💫Vertigo: Sometimes I turn my head and my whole body decides it’s a tilt-a-whirl.
⚖️Weight Gain: I gained six pounds just thinking about bread.
🧴Itchy: Like my skin wants to fight me.
🧠Brain Fog: I walked into the kitchen yesterday, forgot why I was there, and just… ate a pickle.
🩲Incontinence: If I laugh, sneeze, or move too suddenly, it’s over. R.I.P to dignity and dry underwear.

And so, with my sweaty pajama top clinging to me like a whiny toddler, I opened the sacred scrolls of late-night Googling:

⭐️Will I ever be normal again?
⭐️What was I doing again?
⭐️Can you Google where I left my phone if I’m holding it?
⭐️Can I search for the dignity I lost along with my waistline?
⭐️How much coffee is too much coffee when you haven’t slept in three weeks and your cat keeps looking at you like you’re unhinged?

Spoiler: There were no clear answers. Just message boards full of other middle-aged women using terms like “rage blackout,” “hot flash ambush,” and “emotional landslide.

Meanwhile, my husband—sweet man, truly—was exhaling aggressively in his sleep. The kind of exhale that hits the back of your neck and makes you want to throw a pillow with force.

Samuel, God bless him, just blinked slowly at me like, “You good?” No. I was not good, Samuel. I was vibrating with anxiety and potentially heatstroke.

And yet, somewhere in between refreshing WebMD and considering moving into a yurt in the woods, I had a realization:

Maybe this mess—this middle-aged, foggy, hormonal chaos—isn’t the unraveling. Maybe it’s the becoming.

Becoming softer in some places and tougher in others. Becoming someone who knows herself more, even as her body changes without permission.

Becoming someone who can laugh at the absurdity of Googling “menopause or possession?” while ordering new pajama pants at 2:32AM.

Because maybe this isn’t a crisis. Maybe it’s just a hot flash with a plot twist.

And if that’s not comfort, I don’t know what is.

So if you, too, are staring at the ceiling fan wondering if it’s spinning or you’re just dizzy again — welcome. Pull up a heating pad and stay awhile.

There’s no dignity here, but there is community.

And maybe a snack.

Bless it and pass the iced coffee,

Natalie💛