Nobody warns you. That’s honestly the crime of it all.

In your twenties you’re worried about wrinkles that don’t even exist yet. Your thirties are just kids, work, and trying to remember whose dentist appointment is when. Then you hit around 45 and your body just… goes rogue. No warning, no heads up.

Welcome to perimenopause. Population: all of us, eventually.

The Night Sweats Announcement Tour

I used to picture “hot flash” as this cute little moment. A little warmth. Maybe a rosy glow, like something out of a skincare ad.

It is not that.

It’s a full-body weather event. One second you’re totally fine, the next you’re ripping off your cardigan like it personally insulted you, fanning yourself with whatever’s within reach — a menu, a magazine, your own hand if it comes to that. My husband has stopped asking questions at this point. He just hands me things. That’s basically what marriage becomes.

And the night sweats show up whenever they feel like it. You wake up at 3am not sure if you’re sick, haunted, or both.

My Brain Left and Didn’t Say Where It Was Going

I need to give brain fog its own section, mostly because I forgot what I was going to say about it. Twice. While writing this paragraph.

I’ve stood in the middle of a room with no idea why I walked in there. I’ve called my kid by the dog’s name, yup, called my kid “Panda.” What the heck? And I’ve done this more than once. I’ve reread the same text four times and still had to ask a friend to just tell me what it said.

I used to be the person who had a decent memory. I kept track of birthdays, appointments, where I put my keys. Now my memory takes a lunch break way too often.

The Emotional Rollercoaster I Didn’t Buy a Ticket For

One minute I’m crying-laughing at a dog video. The next I’m just crying, because a paper towel commercial reminded me my kids are growing up and time is moving and also, yes, that paper towel really is absorbent. It’s a lot to feel in the span of thirty seconds.

The mood swings are fast. I went from calm to furious over a dishwasher loaded “wrong” in under four seconds — ask my husband, he was there. Two minutes later, I was laughing at myself for losing it over a dishwasher. It’s a mess. But it’s a mess that gets kind of funny once you stop fighting it.

So why am I laughing about this?

Because the alternative is spending this whole stretch of life miserable, and no thanks.

Here’s the part nobody tells you: this sweaty, forgetful, slightly unhinged chapter is also the one where you stop apologizing for taking up space. You say what you actually think. You stop performing for people who weren’t paying that much attention to begin with. There’s something freeing about that, even with the hot flashes thrown in.

I’m not saying perimenopause is fun. Some days are genuinely hard, and if you’re in one right now, I’m not brushing that off. But I’m also not going to treat this whole decade like a tragedy. I’d rather laugh at it than let it flatten me. And laughing at yourself mid-hot-flash turns out to be a decent coping strategy.

So here’s to forgetting why we walked into a room, crying at commercials, and still somehow showing up as the strongest, most unbothered version of ourselves. We’re not falling apart. We’re just recalibrating — loudly, sweatily, and with a sense of humor about it.

What’s the funniest perimenopause moment you’ve had? Tell me — I need the material.

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