Funnily enough, before writing this piece, I had a solid plan: take my magnesium glycinate + D3 + K2 combo (a cocktail sexier than anything I had in my twenties), chase it with 5-HTP, and then… brilliance would flow. Simple, right?

Except, after fetching the water, I forgot why I had water. Then I lost the glass. The tablets were still in the bottle, and I was staring blankly into the void, wondering what task I had set out to do in the first place. Welcome to brain fog, now available in 4K and surround sound, brought to you by your very own hormones.

I used to walk into rooms with purpose. Now I walk in, look around like a confused ratta, and walk back out like a sad, perimenopausal ninja. My children think it’s hilarious… most of the time. I laugh too, nervously, while internally panicking that my brain might be doing daily memory dumps like an old computer trying to update on dial-up (remember those days?).

But let me tell you what’s really fun: living in a body that feels like a knockoff version of my old self. A body that betrays me with eternal heat, dry spells (yes, _those_ too), and mood swings so fierce, I swear I’ve growled at my reflection.

One minute, I’m sobbing into a pillow because you looked at me funny. The next, I’m apologizing with the desperation of someone trying to reverse a nuclear missile after it’s launched. I snap, I scream, then I weep; not because I want to, but because my emotional dial has been set to “Apocalypse Mode.”

And sex? Let’s talk about the elephant in the bedroom. My libido left the chat somewhere between the third load of laundry and my latest hormone crash. It’s not you babe, it’s _really_ not you; it’s just that my body’s thermostat is stuck on “hell” and my nerve endings have taken an unpaid sabbatical. Still, I remember what it felt like to be close, to want you deeply. I still _love_ you, more than I can sometimes show. I’m just fighting to feel like _me_ again.

I see the distance creeping in. I see your confusion, your withdrawal, the silent question: “What happened to her?” And I get it. This isn’t the woman you fell in love with. Some days, she’s not even someone _I_ recognize. But I promise you, she’s in here. Buried under layers of hormonal haze, broken sleep, and battles with rogue chin hairs; she’s still here, and she still wants _you_ beside her.

So no, don’t trade me in. Don’t think I don’t notice the way the world worships the younger, sexier, less complicated “model upgrades” of women. But remember, they too, will one day sweat through their sheets at 3 a.m. while crying over a missing sock and wondering if their partner still finds them beautiful.

All I ask is this: don’t run. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t take it personally. Instead, stand beside me, steady and strong, even when I’m flailing. Hold my hand. Hand me the water I misplaced. Laugh with me when I cry because I forgot how to spell “Wednesday.” Kiss me on the forehead and say, “We’ve got this.”

Because we do.

Even now, especially now, I need you. I love you. And I promise, this too shall pass. (Right after I remember where I put my damn keys.)

With all the love and all the madness,

**Your Perimenopausal Partner-in-Crime**