I went out with some friends last night. I was an hour late – ‘fashionably’ I told myself, though in reality I looked like a mess – a hot mess. I had microneedling done in the morning, so my face looked like I lost a fight with a cheese grater. I was so red and scaly, it hurt to smile. I was in desperate need of a gin and tonic (current vibe – taking a short hiatus from tequila.)Naturally, by the time I arrived, the food was already on the table and the conversation was in full swing. I dove into a slice of pizza and some fried zucchini with tzatziki – like I hadn’t eaten since 2005. I could’ve licked the plate, but I’m working on being "socially acceptable."The topics of discussion? A deep dive into school, kids, homework, dance, hating dance, loving dance, dance-related trauma, and more dance. So far, so good.And then – the vibe quickly shifted.Suddenly, every woman at the table started fanning themselves furiously with the menu to battle a collective hot flash tsunami. They had rosy cheeks, glistening foreheads, and a debate on who had it worse. It was like a hormonal Hunger Games. I observed. I looked around and, like an idiot, said:“So… when did this all start? Has it been going on a while? Hasn’t hit me yet.”Silence.Why did I just say that? Did I invoke it? Are they about to pass their hormonal chaos to me like some kind of peri-menopausal sisterhood? Did I just become the next target in this sweaty gathering of doom?Seems like a lot of us are entering that chapter—the one with mysterious symptoms, unpredictable cravings, and body temperature settings stuck somewhere between “Antarctica” and “surface of the sun.”Now, I haven’t yet been blessed with the infamous hot flashes that make you feel like you’ve been dropped into a sauna in the middle of Dubai — but the changes? They’re coming in hot.Last week, I basically felt like a bikini model—flat stomach, eating clean, drinking my 3 litres of lemon water and attending hot yoga like I was auditioning for a Lululemon campaign.This week? I look five months pregnant, my rings are suffocating my fingers, and I’m currently elbow-deep in a bag of Miss Vickie’s Jalapeño chips. (Queue stomach ache please.) Don’t worry, I have leftover Easter chocolates on the side as a palate cleanser, actually.Mood swings? Let’s just say I go from zen goddess to emotional lunatic in under 12 hours—with bonus points for crying when my husband forgot to bring back extra hot sauce from the Portuguese chicken place. Who cries for hot sauce? Me, apparently. Somewhere between hormone chaos and culinary betrayal, I’ve literally lost it over a spicy condiment fittingly called Peri Peri sauce.Fun fact: Perimenopause can apparently start as early as your mid-30s and last for years. Hormone levels fluctuate like a rollercoaster and symptoms can include everything from food cravings and bloating to night sweats, insomnia, and the sudden urge to divorce your husband because he said, “Good morning!” (with a smile).How dare he?Anyway, we’re all in this magical transformation together where one week you feel like Shakira and the next, you’re raiding the pantry like a Kardashian between takes (after all, the ‘hips don’t lie’).Is perimenopause a blessing or a curse?In truth, it’s neither. It’s simply a chapter in our journey. One that calls for grace, a good sense of humor, unwavering patience, and yes, maybe the occasional deep breath... or tiny dose of lorazepam (kidding… sort of).But in all seriousness, this chapter is a reminder that we are living, evolving, and still writing our stories.And that, in itself, is a blessing.The End. Period. (Yes, pun intended.)Maryann Perri is a writer and editorial contributor at JEO Publishing, where she brings her signature mix of humor, heart, and hard-won wisdom to everything from parenting essays to midlife rants. With a voice that’s both brutally honest and refreshingly relatable, Maryann tackles the chaos of real life—hormones, motherhood, identity shifts—with wit and warmth. Her writing is a reminder that even in the mess, there’s magic, connection, and usually a snack.
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