Hot Flushes, Hormones & Hindsight: My Eight-Year Journey Through Menopause

It started with a whimper and ended with a flood — literally. I was 50, and my periods had become more like an unreliable guest: sometimes they’d show up unannounced, other times they’d burst in like a hurricane. One unforgettable night, I found myself sitting on the toilet, watching the blood pour out of me, genuinely afraid I wouldn’t live to see sunrise. I remember calling out to my husband, panic in my voice, because I honestly thought, “This is it.”

As it turns out, that was just the beginning.

Who knew there were more than 60 symptoms of menopause? (Seriously, sixty!) Nobody hands you a brochure titled “Congratulations on Turning 50! Here’s a Checklist of All the Weird Things Your Body Will Now Do.”

I’ve always been someone who tries to let nature take its course — and that’s not for everyone. Some women absolutely need the support of HRT, acupuncture, yoni steaming, medicinal herbs, or the sacred act of finally saying no to what no longer resonates. Whatever works, I say. Every woman deserves to find her way through this minefield with whatever tools help her feel most whole.

For me, the most public symptom has been hot flushes. And not your garden-variety, “I feel a bit warm” kind. No — these came in like a freight train. In the early days, I was averaging two to three an hour. Round the clock. At one point, I was known to strip down and roll around on cool tiles with the fan blasting like a cyclone.

One particularly memorable moment came when my daughter sweetly threw her new husband under the bus and asked him to do his impersonation of me mid-flush. He nailed it. Every flail, gasp, and eye twitch. I laughed, but also had the confronting realisation that I was maybe… not the most tolerant person in those moments.

(Fair — I was a walking furnace.)

These days, eight years in, I’ve settled into my hot flush routine. I simply unfold my trusty hand fan like a menopausal geisha and quietly say, “Please don’t touch me until this passes.”

But the flushes were only the tip of the hormonal iceberg.

There were the itchy armpits so intense I scratched myself raw. Random skin tags popping up like unwanted party guests. A moustache that could give my teenage son a run for his money. Strange, metallic tastes in my mouth. Brain fog so dense I once looked at my husband — the man I’ve been married to for nearly 24 years — and momentarily forgot his name.

There was the time I sat at a red light and genuinely had to ask myself, “Does red mean stop or go?”

But nothing — nothing — has challenged me more than the mental health fluctuations. I’ve catastrophised so deeply I’ve mentally buried my entire family, complete with imagined eulogies, simply because they were all in the same car. I’ve cleaned every inch of my house in desperate attempts to scrub away intrusive thoughts.

Just this past Easter, I packed our trailer, bought all the food, made arrangements for the pets — and then, seven hours before departure, I cancelled our annual trip with beloved friends and family. I simply couldn’t do it. The weight was too much.

And yet, through it all, I’ve had my husband. He doesn’t try to fix what can’t be fixed. He sees me. He hears me. He holds space for me — whether I’m quietly unraveling or loudly unhinged. His steady presence reminds me that love isn’t always about answers; sometimes it’s about simply sitting in the unknown together, without judgment.

So what have I learned in these eight chaotic, sweaty, itchy, sacred years?

I’ve learned that I’m resilient. I’ve learned that I don’t have to have all the answers — and that’s okay. I’ve learned to lean into my friendships, the deep ones, the ones that hold me without condition. I’ve learned I don’t have to tolerate anyone or anything that doesn’t truly value me. I’ve learned that family — as maddening and as marvelous as they are — is everything. I’ve learned that girls’ weekends are medicine. That our sons and daughters need to witness what menopause really looks like. And most of all, I’ve learned the power of saying “sorry” — and really, truly meaning it.

Menopause doesn’t come with a roadmap. It comes with waves. Some knock you off your feet. Others just leave you breathless. But if you’re lucky — if you hold on, reach out, and stay honest — you just might find a new version of yourself on the other side.

She’s stronger. She’s wiser. She carries a fan.

And she’s not afraid to use it.