Bodily change, middle school to midlife

Finding my flow through uncharted and unstoppable life stuff, in a body that's starting to feel old and unfamiliar

The first time I ever heard someone talk openly about menopause was at 5:30 am spinning class. I was a regular at the North Shore Chicago fitness club in the late aughts. Like the others, I was there for my daily dose of dopamine. 

Top, front left in the class was a woman in her late 40s. Married to another overachiever. Mom to two talented teens that were always competing in some far-off tournament. Memorable because she was an oversharer in a room where hardly anyone else made eye contact, much less talked.

Like me, she always arrived at least ten minutes early to make sure that her spot stayed her spot. But she was spinning to keep her edge rather than for the calorie burn. No doubt she needed that edge to hold her high-profile senior exec position during the Blackberry days, when “work-life balance” was nothing but a complete joke.

The older woman: invisible and unheard

There’s something about being with a group of strangers in a dimly lit room, at a time of day that still felt more middle-of-the-night. No makeup, no energy to cover up what’s usually hidden, and no interest in caring too much what anyone thinks because you don’t really wanna see anyone there … anywhere else. You’re less inhibited than you’ll be just a showered hour later. 

And maybe that’s why, while we were spinning our way awake during the warmup, the woman loudly blurted out, “I’m going through menopause. I’m having a hot flash right now.”  She almost seemed surprised this was happening to her. Like she wanted to say it out loud so it felt real. Like she wanted people to hear it and respond so she had proof that it wasn’t just in her head.

But no one obliged. Nothing. Silence — just the electronic bass of “Midnight in a Perfect World” and the spinning hum of bikes in unison. People looked down, dug their heels in deeper, focusing on technique, pretending they didn’t hear her.

The caffeinated, steely instructor briskly walked past her, towering over all the crouched bodies. I was in my usual back-corner spot, more than a decade younger than her. A mom with two young kids, still hoping for more. I knew that change wasn’t forever away for me, but I had no interest in thinking about it then.  

My turn to be her, like it or not

A decade later that changed, because I started changing. And it wasn’t my period that was changing. It was stuff in my head. How I felt about everything. The past and present. And a future I was starting to dread. I started craving info. The good kind, like from The North American Menopause Society (NAMS). And the bad kind, like the clickbait-y stuff that sounded too good … but maybe true? 

I had no big sister to ask. My mom’s periods ended in her mid-30s after a hysterectomy. She had that mysterious “working woman’s disease” in the 80s — endometriosis. Pretty unbelievable the ways women get blamed for their bodies. My mom’s 40s were so stressful that symptoms from hormonal shifting probably weren’t noticed because her baseline discomfort was so high.  

“Is perimenopause just a privileged woman’s disease?” I briefly wondered. Feeling guilty that my own privileged comforts may be the reason I'm even noticing that I feel like crap. Like many girls in the world today, my mom lived without running water when she got her first period. As long as I can remember, I’ve been aware of my vast privilege. But the truth is, there’s no stereotypical “type” that struggles with either. And blaming women for their bodies sucks, whether it be my mom, me, or anyone else.

What-to-expect insight from the Egg Whisperer

So at 45, I reached out to a reproductive endocrinologist (RE) to find out what my road to menopause might be like. I thought who’d have better insight than someone who spends a lot of time with women in their decade before menopause. But first, I went to my primary care provider where I went regularly for check-ups and screenings. Because I knew: almost every symptom of perimenopause could be caused by a medical condition that needs treatment. My provider helped me rule out other possible causes.

I’d seen an RE before, but for different reasons. Before trying for baby number four at forty, I did a fertility check-in with one to find out if that window was still open. Five years later, I simply wanted some idea on what my road to menopause might be like. I wanted to know what to expect, the same way I did when I was first pregnant in ‘99 and read that not really helpful, but all-I-had book. And twenty years later, the info on perimenopause wasn’t that great either.

So I turned to the Egg Whisperer herself, Dr. Aimee Eyvazzadeh. With some basic blood work, and a detailed medical history, she helped fill in a picture of what the road ahead might be like for me during a 20 minute phone consult. I knew might, only meant might. Even though my cycles were still regular, it really helped having someone who knew explain the changes that I was starting to feel. Just like the woman cycling through menopause, I wanted proof that it wasn’t just in my head. 

Change wasn’t optional and feelings were outsized.

The return of teen angst — what’s up with that?

That following year, I grew to understand why the 40s are referred to as “reverse puberty.” Just like when I was a teen, change wasn’t optional and feelings were outsized.

I felt more exposed and bothered by everything. I found myself crying at 3 am about something from decades ago. Never having been a sentimental, teary-eyed person, I quickly became annoyed with myself. I’m so grateful I got some therapy support during this period. I firmly believe mental health needs to be available to everyone as a normal part of healthcare.

Writing became a huge help for me. I was surprised. How could something so simple make such a big difference? I began journaling through my angst, flood of bad memories, boredom, sadness. It even helped me feel good feelings with greater depth and appreciation. Feeling like my young self again, I dug out all my old diaries and read them for the first time as an adult.

Are you there God? It’s me Daphne, and I still don’t have my period

I started with the lavender one with pastel dots and bows. The one with the lock that never worked after my little brother broke into it and read all about my secret crush on Brian Riley in 7th grade. I got it for Christmas when I was ten. 

The first entry was about change. In my body, on the cusp of puberty. And in my life at home, with my dad and brother Patrick moved out. 

Dear Diary, January 2, 1985

Today was a normal, boring day. I am really confused with Patrick going away, my mom having Gene as a boyfriend, and the devorce. I wish we could be one family again. But I know that would be impossible. Melissa got her period today. I wonder when I’ll get mine. It’s just part of growing up. I’m so mixed up.

Ever since I first read Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret the year before, I’d been wanting my period (along with bigger boobs). At almost 13 and still without a period, I knew writing to my diary wasn’t enough.

Dear God, May 24, 1987

I am 12 years old, don’t you think I’m old enough to start growing? I am still a little flat chested and I STILL don’t have my period. ALL my friends have their periods except one. I don’t want to be the last one. PLEASE Lord. 

For good measure, I tacked on a Sign of the Cross and a reminder: I love God, my angel, and Mary.

PMS was always a problem. But the real problem was the weird expectation that we’re supposed to feel the same way all the time.

Back to ‘88, when my cycling life began

I had to wait one more year for that to happen. So I jumped ahead to that entry, starting just a week before — my first PMS. And it happened at the worst time. It was spring break ’88. My family took our first trip to Florida – my first airplane trip ever. It was a stretch for my mom to afford, but she really wanted us to have the “normal” experiences that many of my Catholic school friends were having.

I was so excited, counting down the days, but ended up having a miserable time. My family still teases me to this day for being such a pain in the ass. 

Here’s what I wrote in my diary:

Dear Diary,

This is the night before we leave Florida (thank God). This is the worst trip of my life:

1. My hair looks bad.

2. There’s no shower to rinse off sand.

3. Food’s gross.

4. Family didn’t get along.

5. Gene was a spazola. 

6. Mom told me I was no fun and like a grandma! Coming from a parent – what a put down!

7. Have to memorize Nixon’s resignation speech and haven’t started.

8. Have to do a computer project and it’s like 75% of the grade.

9. I got swimmer’s ear, and it kills.

10. I miss home. I’ve been to a lot of states, (um, like five) but I think the suburbs of Chicago are the best and I wanna stay there for the rest of my life!

Five days later:

Dear Diary,

Guess what happened? No, I still don’t have a boyfriend, but NOW I’m a woman. I got my period! Now I’m going to go read some of those books that meant nothing to me before.

Bye, Daphne

A month later:

Dear Diary,

I’m depressed. I think I’m getting my period again. If I die and someone’s reading this, I just wanna say some things to people I love. 

I wrote letters to everyone in my family. “Death can’t make me stop loving you,” I told my mom and I reminded my dad “We’ll always be a family.” Then I thanked him for taking me on so many beer factory tours. For my stepdad, I sympathized that he got stuck with me during my teen years.

To my brother Ted, I admitted that I was secretly jealous of his “personable personality. …You were always honest with your feelings. Me, I hid mine.” I told Patrick I missed him but understood why he needed to move away. And for my youngest brother Stu I wrote: “I know we love each other even though you call me ugly and I call you a geekoid. That’s just what brothers and sisters do.”

PMS was always a problem for me. But the real problem wasn’t the PMS; it was that it didn’t fit the somewhat weird expectation that people are supposed to mostly feel the same way all the time – happy. It was “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” 1988 after all. “Put a smile in your face / Don’t bring everyone down like this.” I love the song but don’t love the cultural message I felt then. No one should have to force a smile, feeling responsible for other people’s moods.

The truth was, I liked having PMS. I liked feeling annoyed and wanting to be left alone. Not all the time, but sometimes. And sometimes it served a purpose. It pushed me to face difficult feelings or choices, things that I probably would’ve otherwise ignored. And as it’s turning out, perimenopause is doing the same thing.

Cycling lessons for the cycle-free days ahead

As I get closer to an eventual end to my cycles, I’m starting to wonder what that’ll be like. What will my moods be like without the hormonal ups and downs happening like clockwork in the background? Are there lessons that I’ve learned from managing years of shifting that’ll also help me in the next phase in life? I think so. Here are my takeaways as I get ready:

Retreat and rethink

PMS taught me how to retreat when life feels like too much. Focus on the bare minimum. Talk less, and say “no” more. Limit media input. Be still in a smaller space. Put off decisions or interactions that might be difficult. Besides rest and recovery, going inward for a few days is a chance to rethink. You might end up seeing choices you didn’t know you had. Or maybe you’ll realize you’re doing things you don’t have to do, don't like to do, and are even causing you to feel like crap.

Emily McDowell

, founder of Em & Friends, explained in an interview for

The Midst

why she’s been less engaged with social media: “I just stopped getting a dopamine hit from it.” That really resonated with me and I know I’m not alone. It’s weird but true that it’s easy to get stuck doing stuff you don’t even like anymore, just out of habit or social pressures. 

Stepping back gives us the time to rethink how we spend our precious time and attention. I’ve moved on from high intensity fitness. It stopped giving me a dopamine hit, and instead felt draining. Stepping back from that helped me find hula dance again, which is a better fit for where I’m at now in my life and body.

Enjoy the highs, without fear

As soon as I entered puberty, feeling good about the highs in life felt dangerous. You might be called a bitch if you spoke with confidence, especially if you said something true. If you felt good about your body, you risked drawing too much male-gaze attention and being called a slut. Or much worse, you might be blamed for bad male behavior, even when it was criminal. And even in generally safe places, there’d be this worry of someone thinking: “Who does she think she is?” 

There’s a lot less of that to deal with as an older woman. While that’s a relief, it’s also an opportunity to stand alongside and support any younger people experiencing that judgment. Going forward, I’m gonna savor whatever highs come my way — without worrying about what others think or what might come next.

Overshare with purpose

Just because we can share something, doesn’t mean we should. So be purposeful about it. What’s more, privacy and confidentiality are incredibly important, even when not legally required. FYI — Melissa is not the real name of the friend who got her period. I can keep secrets way better now than when I was ten.

But overall, I know I’ve kept far too much inside. I have the most regrets about the good feelings. Like those letters that I wrote to my family when I was 13. It was too late for my dad and stepdad, but last year I gave the rest to my family, including my older brother Patrick a few months before he unexpectedly died. So now I’m sharing my good thoughts and feelings about people in real time, because that’s the only real time I know I have.

But hard stuff sometimes needs to be shared too. I grew up hearing “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” And this was reflected in the culture. Of course, in some situations, that’s good advice. But staying quiet about really bad shit often allowed more bad stuff to happen … and left so many with pain inside and nowhere to go. 

That’s why I’m sharing this story here. And why I encourage everyone to share their stories, when they’re ready, and on their terms. Each story is just a drop in a bucket. But when we share them with each other, we help others feel less alone. And instead of filling in other people’s stories with our own imagination and biases, we hear them in their own words and become curious for more. 

Final thoughts

If I had a chance to go back, I’d talk with the oversharing woman in spinning class. I’d love to hear what else she had to share. And chances are the story I imagined about her was quite different from the real one. Now that’s the kinda dopamine hit that still does it for me.

---