Another house sit, another desk lined with someone else’s memories. Smiling faces in faraway places. Laughter frozen in frames. And me, staring at them, wondering if my sudden surge of emotional blunder was perimenopause…or the silent toll of a life I still haven’t lived.
After settling into a cozy cat sit for a sweet Swedish woman, I opened my laptop to work on the debut post for My Doll Entourage—a passion I had left tucked away many moons ago. But the dark oak desk in her study distracted me. Along its back edge sat a neat spread of photos: people in motion, drinks raised, adventures lived. They were alive, radiant, captured in moments that whispered, This is what it looks like to live.
And with that view came the question I can’t shake: Am I having another perimenopause moment—or is this the ache of a life never lived?
Perimenopause is a series of recalibrations—mood swings, hot flashes, hormones dropping out like unreliable Wi-Fi. But I’ve also learned to pause, to ask if my body is flagging, or if my soul is calling bullshit.
Our bodies store a lot of unaddressed energies. And yes, I’m spinning the block from The Body Keeps the Score.
I’m aware this book is overly referenced; however, let’s take this a step further. Instead of focusing on our embedded traumas and how they orchestrate our mental navigation, what about our shelved list of unfulfilled dreams and desires?
Because sometimes, what we label as “just hormones” is actually something much louder: the cry of an unfulfilled life.
Those photos on her desk hit me like a ton of bricks. Five years ago, I set out to rewrite my story. I wanted a canvas filled with travel, with soul-resonating connections, with days that felt like a life fully lived—not bullet points and subtitled roles.
I’m not here to cry a river, but the truth is, I want those photos for myself. I want to wake up and see my life reflected in frames—moments worth revisiting.
I want to finally live as I intended. Is that too much to ask?
Live before you regret not living.
The fire those photos lit hasn’t diminished. If anything, it's my phoenix clawing its way out of ash–an ignition to keep going.
And here I am, pushing, pulling, exhausted, trying to rebuild something stable but fluid. I dream of writing at a café in Positano, of learning Portuguese, of earning my BA in Journalism or Psychology—or hell, both. I dream of air that feels fresh, mornings filled with ease, and conversations with people who want to build roots instead of stacking leaves.
And a big fuck you if you believe life can never be this way. As far as I’m concerned, it should be this way! 40 years have passed in an instant, and 40 more could be a blur.
Perimenopause, in my opinion, is only part of the story. That bitch is a reality power stick, sure—but she isn’t the whole plot. No supplement, no doctor visit, no HRT (though believe me, I’ll be first in line when I can) will solve the ache of unfinished business.
Some of us still have boxes unchecked, and they will haunt us more fiercely than night sweats ever could.
Because perimenopause may be the storm. But the thunder in my chest? That’s the unfinished life inside me demanding to be lived.
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