In my twenties, I was convinced that by the time I reached my forties, I would have everything impressively figured out and be firmly in control of my life.

Instead, I generally live a daily life of small, deeply unexciting victories that only make sense if you are also a grown perimenopausal adult with a body that complains more frequently than you’re used to and some sort of vague sense of responsibility.

When the hormones are raging, some days my biggest win is remembering why I have walked into a room without having to completely retrace my steps. On others, it is putting clean washing away instead of creating yet another ‘clean but not put away’ chair situation. Yesterday, I made a meal that wasn’t completely beige, and even better, I did not burst into tears over something objectively minor. On another day, I did cry, but I correctly identified why, rather than getting upset about not being able to find my keys like last time. I woke up last week at 3am and resisted the urge to mentally rewrite my entire life. I repeatedly choose comfort over aesthetics (my sweatpants, hoodies and fluffy socks make up about 90% of my wardrobe), I can’t remember the last time I bothered to put makeup on when I left the house… and I feel zero shame about any of it. At this point, it all counts as progress.

Continue reading →