My period showed up Monday, eighteen days late, which feels about right for this particular season of my life. Apparently even my uterus has stopped respecting a schedule.
I woke up feeling like my body had been put through a grinder. I had spent most of Sunday outside because the weather was beautiful and the house needed to be prepped for the cooler, wetter weather coming. My theory is that the more time I spend outside, the less mess I make inside. Or maybe it’s just less time available to notice the mess. Either way, while I was out there, I decided I’m turning the sunroom into a puzzle room for the colder months.
Nick buys me the most wonderful puzzles. The last one I started at the dining room table, I finished in one day. It took almost twelve hours. By the end my ankles were swollen, my knees hurt, and I somehow felt accomplished and unaccomplished at the same time. I was proud that I’d finished it, but I’d also spent almost an entire day so focused that there were stretches when I barely talked to Nick or Evelyn. I felt guilty about that afterward, even though I think I probably needed the reset. Sometimes being allowed to take up space doing something simply because I want to matters.
The funny thing is, I don’t think I finished the puzzle in one day because I was determined to finish it. I finished it because I didn’t want to have to take care of it. If I left it on the dining room table, I’d have to cover it so the cats didn’t steal pieces. I’d have to move things around when we needed the table for dinner, especially during the weeks we have the girls. I’d have to uncover it when I wanted to work on it and cover it again when I was done. Eventually, the puzzle would become another thing on the list.
I’ve realized lately that even the things I enjoy somehow become things I need to take care of. I put my plants away at night so the cats don’t eat them. I hide my flowers. I put away the puzzles. I move things, cover things and protect things because I want to keep the house organized and clean and because apparently four cats have made it their life’s mission to make sure I can’t have anything nice without developing a protection plan for it.
Meanwhile, everyone else’s things are everywhere. I’m constantly picking things up while hearing lead by example somewhere in my head. Put your things away. Keep the house picked up. Don’t leave your stuff everywhere. Somewhere along the way, though, I think I started treating my own things as if they were in the way too.
Except I live here too.
That’s when I started thinking about the sunroom. I have a table I bought for Nick’s surprise party that needs to come inside for winter anyway, so why not put it out there? I can add a space heater and leave my tea cup warmer there. I can have a vase of flowers without hiding it from the cats. I can start a puzzle and work on it for an hour instead of twelve, and when I’m tired, I can just get up and leave it there. There would even be room at the table if someone wanted to sit with me.
I think women need that. Not necessarily a puzzle room or a craft room or one of those perfectly styled she-sheds where everything coordinates and apparently nobody owns a random extension cord. I think we need somewhere for our own organized chaos. Somewhere we can have things exactly where we need them because we’re the ones using them. Maybe it’s a desk, a corner, a table or an entire room if you’re lucky enough to have one. Just somewhere we don’t have to constantly reset for everyone else.
Maybe I’m noticing it more right now because I’m starting to get little pockets of space in other parts of my life too.
Last week Evelyn started Pre-K. On her second day, Nick walked to school with us, and when the greeter suggested Evelyn show Mommy and Daddy how big she was by walking down to the cafeteria holding spot without us, she just went. On the second day of school! Nick kept patting my back asking, “Are you okay, Momma?” clearly waiting for me to fall apart, but I didn’t.
I’d cried the day before. I’d felt the lump in my throat and the heaviness in my chest, but on that second morning I was just proud. For four years I’ve been part of practically every major thing that’s happened in Evelyn’s day, and now she’s going to have experiences that don’t include me. I realized I’m actually excited about that. She’s going to come home and tell me things I don’t already know. We’ll have new things to talk about and new questions for me to ask her. And while she’s there, I get a few hours to breathe and think without worrying about anything else.
I’ve been taking a walk every morning. I move my body, close my rings and know that whether I strength train later or not, I’ve already done something that benefits me mentally and physically. My brain still starts listing all the things I could be doing instead sometimes, but I’ve gotten better at telling myself there is time. I’ll do those things when I get home. I also have the time Evelyn naps later in the day. Everything doesn’t have to happen in those three precious morning hours.
I’m starting to move through my days as they come instead of trying to cram something productive into every available minute, which is probably good because my body certainly seems committed to doing whatever the hell it wants anyway.
This past month I’ve been brain foggy and exhausted, and my libido has been in the shitter. I feel awful about that because it’s not that I don’t want my husband. I do. I’m just sometimes so tired from merely existing with these hormones while trying to maintain some semblance of a sleep routine that intimacy isn’t exactly sitting at the forefront of my brain. You’d think a period refusing to show up for eighteen extra days might at least come with some fringe benefits, but apparently not. Perimenopause continues to be an absolute delight.
So naturally, when my period finally showed up Monday and I already felt like garbage, I spent the day homecoming-dress shopping in Syracuse with teenagers. What I’d hoped would take a few hours took the entire day, but I did manage to sneak in a couple things for myself. I stopped at Barnes & Noble and bought The Witches: Suspicion, Betrayal, and Hysteria in 1692, which I’m already enjoying. It has a “cast of characters” in the beginning that I can keep flipping back to, and my current brain appreciates that more than I can explain.
More importantly, I bought bras.
Nothing makes me happier than happy boobies. Two Soma bras that are normally $58 apiece cost me $55 total after tax, and never have my chesticles, as Nick calls them, been so happily contained. I felt beautiful, secure and comfortable. Apparently sometimes self-care is a morning walk and sometimes it’s getting your boobs properly hoisted back into position.
I’m beginning to think that’s what this season is actually teaching me. The things I do for myself don’t have to be enormous to count.
Last week the school reached out and asked if I’d be interested in substitute training. I was upfront that I couldn’t dedicate a ton of time to it because Evelyn is still only in school half days and our childcare availability is limited. They explained that the shifts are self-selected through an app and they rarely call unless there’s something that hasn’t been filled, so I agreed to take the training Friday.
It’s not a lot of money per hour, but it’s money coming into our home without requiring money to go back out for childcare. It gets my foot in the door for next year when Evelyn goes full time, and most importantly, I still get to choose. I can work when it makes sense. I can still write. I can still walk. I can still be here for Evelyn. And apparently I can begin slowly reentering the outside world, which I’ve come to realize I begrudgingly have to do eventually. I’m nervous, but I’m excited too.
A few weeks ago I was asking myself what I was going to do when everyone didn’t need me quite so much. I wondered whether I needed to find a job, whether writing counted and whether I was wasting time if those newly available hours weren’t earning money. Even when I tried to imagine “time for myself,” I filled it with cleaning, errands and things that needed to get done.
I think I was waiting for some big answer to what comes next, but so far there hasn’t been one. There’s been a morning walk, a few quiet hours, a new book, two spectacular bras, a substitute training course and a table I’m moving into the sunroom.
Everyone in this house has their own space, interests and agendas. I’m the calendar keeper, the meal planner and the person who generally knows where everyone is supposed to be and when. Nick calls me the Director of Operations, and he’s not wrong. I like taking care of my family. I like being the person who keeps a lot of this moving. I don’t think I need to stop being her in order to make room for me.
Maybe I just need to stop automatically putting myself away.
So this fall there will probably be a half-finished puzzle sitting on a table in my sunroom. My tea warmer will stay there because I use it there. Maybe I’ll have flowers on the table because I won’t have to hide them every night. There’ll be an extra chair if someone wants to come sit with me, because having something that’s mine doesn’t mean nobody else is welcome.
It just means I get to leave my shit out too.
Continue the conversation
If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman.
It’s not a roadmap. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and finding your footing again when life feels unfamiliar.
Download The Unguided Woman here.
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