“Menopause is a journey where you rediscover yourself and become the woman you were always meant to be.” ~Dr. Christiane Northrup
I recently had a healing session with a dear client of mine.
“Before we begin,” she asked, “how are you?”
I blinked and said, “Oh, you know, the usual. Just navigating perimenopause. Hallucinating about living alone without my partner one minute and panicking about dying alone the next.”
She burst into laughter.
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I find myself browsing apartment listings weekly. Good to know I’m not the only one.”
Ah, yes, the sacred scrolls of apartment listings, or how I see it, midlife porn for the spiritually exhausted woman who just wants to drink tea in silence without someone breathing in her direction in the morning.
Another friend, a psychologist, recently told me her partner kept his old studio even after they moved in together. Every month, during her hormonal spikes, he retreats there for a few days. Sometimes, they upgrade to one night per week in addition to that.
Brilliant! I call that preventative medicine. Maybe the couple that gives each other space stays together and doesn’t make weird headlines in the “Relationships Gone Wrong” subreddit.
Because here is the truth no one prepared me for: perimenopause is not just a hormonal rollercoaster; it’s a full-blown existential rave. One moment, I’m craving solitude like it’s a basic human right; the next, I’m sobbing at a dog food commercial and wondering if I’ll end up alone in a nursing home run by AI robots.
And then there’s the fog that makes my brain feel like a group chat with no admin and everyone talking at once. My short-term memory, once razor-sharp, now resembles a moth-eaten scarf. Entire thoughts evaporate mid-sentence, names disappear like ghosts, and I have started writing everything down so I don’t forget.
Add to that the sleepless nights, the 3 a.m. existential spirals, and the relief that I’m not suffering from the other fifty-plus perimenopausal symptoms. At least for now…
It reminds me of my teenage years when I slammed my door (multiple times, one after another, because once wasn’t enough to make my point!), rolled my eyes, and decided everyone was annoying.
Well, welcome to perimenopause: the reboot. Only now, you can’t blame puberty. And yet, you are expected to function, hold a job, maybe raise a human or two.
My partner, bless him, is a genuinely kind, grounded man. He cooks. He shops. He walks our Shiba Inu pup. He supports my business and all my spiritual rants. And yet, lately, his mere existence makes me want to silently pack a bag and join a women-only monastery in the Pyrenees.
My midlife journey is wrapped in complexities. I have an estranged father and a mother with Parkinson’s disease who lives in the UK. Thanks to Brexit, I can’t just pack up and live with her. Nor does she want to leave the UK.
And I? I’m nomadic by nature. My roots are in motion, more like driftwood than oak, so even if she wanted to join me, there is no permanent place I call home.
Recently, I signed a power of attorney for my mum’s health and finances. The doctor had suggested it after suspecting early signs of dementia. “It’s best to get your affairs in order now,” she said.
I nodded. And then, I woke up with a frozen right shoulder the next morning. My body had declared mutiny, and I knew this wasn’t random. My right shoulder was reacting to the invisible weight, the pressure, the emotional inheritance of being the one who holds it all.
And I can’t help but wonder: how many of us in midlife are carrying too much? How many of us have aching backs, inflamed joints, tight jaws, and no idea that our bodies are the ones screaming when we don’t?
Our generation inherited the burnout of our mothers and the emotional silence of our fathers. And now, our bodies are saying, “Enough.” And through it all, my body shows up. Even when aching or confused. Even when the wiring feels off. She—this body—keeps holding me. Keeps asking me to come home.
But amid the aches and obligations, something else began to stir beneath the surface, and I realized that not all is negative. I also recognize midlife for what it is: a powerful transition. A threshold. A sacred invitation to step into deeper sovereignty.
I believe that beneath the hormonal rollercoaster lies something deeper: A quiet, seismic shift from performing to becoming. What if midlife isn’t just about loss or exhaustion but also a portal: a wild, fiery, phoenix-shaped portal to something richer and more meaningful?
In mythology, there is a sacred archetype we rarely talk about: the Crone. The word comes from Old Norse and Celtic roots and was reclaimed by Jungian analyst Marion Woodman and feminist scholars to signify the wise elder woman—she who sees in the dark, who knows, who no longer needs to be pretty or polite.
She is bone and truth and howl, and what’s even better, she is awakening inside of us, taking up more and more space inside our minds, hearts, and souls.
Midlife is when we begin to embody her. It’s when we stop whispering and start roaring. It’s when we say, “Actually, no, I won’t do that. I don’t want to. I’m tired. And I need silence, space, and possibly a cabin in the woods with good Wi-Fi and nobody talking.”
We begin to reclaim our right to be contradictory, to change our minds, to speak from the fire in our bellies instead of the scripts we memorized to be loved.
I’m proud to announce that my people-pleasing days are over. Gone is the spiritual language I used to soften my rage, to be accepted in the love-and-light circles. I started questioning toxic positivity years ago, but now I am fully allergic to it.
Don’t tell me “Everything happens for a reason” when there are genocides unfolding as we speak. Don’t tell me to raise my vibration while I’m caring for a mother who might forget my name in the near future. Don’t tell me that anger is a “low frequency” emotion when it’s a healthy response to witnessing atrocities happening everywhere.
My anger, or sacred rage as I like to call it, is what fuels me to speak up, to raise my voice, to speak about what’s important to me.
Midlife isn’t just a phase; it’s a rite of passage that comes with many gifts and also responsibilities.
One: Grounded power.
While my thirties were spent floating in “ascension” mode—channeling, visualizing, forever raising my frequency—my forties have been a lesson in descension: in landing fully in my body, in the mess, in the moment. In letting my roots grow deep and wild and unafraid. I no longer want to float or ascend.
Two: Embodied truth.
Midlife strips us of our masks. I no longer pretend. I tell the truth in my podcast, in my sessions, in my writing. I don’t want clients who expect me to be their guru. I want kinship. I want real, authentic connections.
And yes, I still have moments of spiraling. I still fantasize about living alone. But I also know now, deeply, that those longings aren’t escapism. They are calls to return to myself, and this return to self needs some form of silence and solitude.
Three: Fierce compassion.
I no longer hold back what I feel. But I also no longer feel the need to carry everyone else’s pain. Right now, I am learning to care deeply without losing myself.
As Anaïs Nin said, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
Midlife, for me, is the season of blooming open even if the petals are a little singed. I might not go and live alone any time soon, but I will spend a month alone traveling through China this September. And my partner, the understanding man that he is, will stay with my mum to take care of her that month.
So if you, too, are hallucinating about renting a solo flat, crying over a parent’s future, snapping at your beloved for simply blinking, and wondering who you even are right now, you are not broken. And you are also not alone. You are becoming.
Welcome to the middle. It’s messy and holy and completely yours. This season isn’t meant to break you. It’s meant to reintroduce you to the version of yourself that was always waiting.
And if your shoulder or your back starts acting up: Pause. Breathe. Put your hand on your heart and whisper, “I hear you.”
Then, slowly, powerfully, roar. Because your voice—raw, ragged, and real—was never meant to whisper.
