27/06/2026
To all those on the same journey. I wrote this on holiday and think it will resonate with many š
š„Perimenopause: The Fire That Forges Usš„
Dear Perimenopause,
You really donāt believe in subtlety, do you?
My internal thermostat has resigned without notice.
It no longer takes instructions.
It simply does whatever it pleases,
usually at the most inconvenient moment.
I walk into a room with purposeā¦
and leave wondering why Iām holding a wooden spoon.
Iāve grown a soft little tummy
that seems to have arrived without asking permission.
My jeans have become optimistic.
Elastic waistsā¦my new best friend.
My patience has becomeā¦ selective.
I cry because the dog looked at me.
I laugh until I snort.
I want everyone closeā¦
then I want everyone to bu**er off and stop chewing.
Itās a curious dance.
But then againā¦
My hormones have never been ordinary.
As a young woman, I fought my cycle.
I cursed her timing.
Her pain.
Her unpredictability.
I wished she would be quieter.
Kinder.
Less demanding.
I didnāt know then
that every month she was practising.
Preparing.
Gathering enough Blood,
enough Essence,
enough loveā¦
to grow two extraordinary babies beneath my heart.
And somehow,
she also found the strength
to carry two little souls
whose footprints were lighter than breath,
yet who changed me forever.
Motherhood doesnāt only belong
to the children we raise.
Sometimes it belongs
to the ones we release.
My womb has known both.
And both have made me a mother.
For over twenty years, Chinese medicine has sat beside me like an old friend, gently reminding me that women are not designed to bloom once.
We are seasons.
Spring bursts into life.
Summer creates.
Late summer nourishes.
Autumnā¦
Autumn gathers.
In this medicine, they say the Essence begins to turn inward.
Not because we are losing something.
Because we are finally being asked to receive.
The Blood that once nourished babies
now longs to nourish the woman.
The energy once spent creating others
begins creating wisdom.
What a beautiful idea.
Even if it arrives wearing sweaty pyjamas.
Even if she wakes at three in the morning,
heart racing,
anxiety arriving before her feet touch the floor,
convinced something terrible must be wrongā¦
only to discover
itās another midnight meeting with her hormones.
Perhaps this isnāt my body falling apart.
Perhaps itās my body changing jobs.
For decades she whispered,
āTake care of everyone else.ā
Now she clears her throat and says,
āMy turn.ā
And maybeā¦
just maybeā¦
thatās the medicine.
Not fighting the change.
Not mourning the woman we were.
But bowing gently
to the woman arriving.
The one who worries less
about being noticed.
The one who discovers
that becoming invisible to the male gaze
can feel surprisingly liberating.
The one who sees herself more clearly
than ever before.
She knows what matters.
She wastes less time apologising.
She trusts her intuition.
She has earned every silver hair,
every laugh line,
every scar,
every hot flush,
every lesson.
She has loved.
She has lost.
She has carried life.
She has carried grief.
And stillā¦
she rises.
So hereās to these beautifully inconvenient years.
To the fire that isnāt here to burn us down,
but to forge us.
To the hormones that once created children,
and now create something just as preciousā¦
A woman who finally comes home to herself.
And I thinkā¦
she is absolutely magnificent.
Katie ā”
āsWisdom
