Guest post by Lori, a perimenopausal woman who completely overhauled her life in 2021. Those two things are not related. She is still trying to determine what is next. Send thoughts and prayers.

My journey to menopause has been long, relatively uneventful, and consistently disappointing. Much like when I wanted to be pregnant and anxiously hoped my period would not start, I await each month, hoping there is no sign of a period. I wait 3 months, 5 months, even 6 months, with no sign of a period, and then I start to bleed and the clock resets. A year without a period is what marks menopause, and I just can’t seem to get there. At my recent new doctor visit, she praised my “extremely healthy and strong ovaries” for their longevity. Not a badge of honor I want. Instead, I long for the fruit in my loins to shrivel into hard little ovary raisins and fall out. I’m done.

Considering some of the alternatives, an uneventful perimenopause is an option for which I feel grateful. But I’ve been dealing with terrible night sweats and increasingly erratic behavior for the past 13 years. Tack on an additional 31 years of heavy bleeding, PMDD, period acne, leaking, bloating, birth control pills, an IUD, condoms, and an extra period every time I travel. It often feels like Menarche to Menopause has been one long and bloody battle.

Through it all, I’ve been surrounded by other women that have fought alongside me. Three sisters, college roommates, four daughters, and friends. When my daughters all lived at home, my husband said it felt like living in Anita Diamant’s fictional depiction of communal menstruation in her book The Red Tent. If only we were so lucky I would say. 

As I connect the generations between my mother and my daughters, the approach to anything that surrounds the female body swings wildly. In my experience with the older generation, there was too little discussion, explanation, and commiseration about what was happening to my female body. And as the oldest child in the family, I did not have older sisters that I could count on to relay information. For me this led to a lot of misinformation, period accidents, and a lack of knowledge on the aftermath of childbirth. The same has proven true with menopause as it is only discussed by my older relatives with whispers and coded language. Sadly, the lack of openness also cloaked everything in shame

On the other hand, my daughters discuss their bodies and reproductive cycles openly and in much greater detail. With themselves, their friends, their spouses, and in one daughter’s case, with the all-boys lunch table when she declared that she was tired of listening to them discuss circumcision so could they instead focus on the fact that blood gushes from her vagina. Although that seems like a bit much for a meal topic, discussing details with all genders is a much healthier approach. My daughters have taught me about menstrual cups, the pain of endometriosis, and natural childbirth. And they have taught me how to comfortably discuss women’s reproductive experiences with almost anyone.

However, by the time I discuss things with my daughters, it has been years since I’ve experienced them myself. Thank goodness for friends and roommates! My friends taught me how to properly wear a tampon when I failed to put it in far enough and spent an entire day trying to sit in excruciating pain. They also walked behind me when I leaked through my mini tampon during class and didn’t have time to change it between 6th and 7th periods. During a discussion on sex, they cleared up my misconception that you could only get pregnant if you had sex while on your period. Imagine the results of that misunderstanding. I learned in college that my cycle synced with my roommates’ cycles, that sex was messy, and that wearing a tampon could break your hymen. We spent hours and hours talking about periods and boys and sex and childbirth. 

So I learned some things. And then I experienced some things. And then I shared those experiences. And now I am at the final frontier of my reproductive life: menopause. Physically, I’m beyond ready. Emotionally, also ready. Spiritually? Yes, I’m ready, but as happens with most things in my life when they come to an end, I have a few regrets. I regret not sooner understanding and celebrating the amazing things my body has done. I regret not treating my body with more kindness, gentleness, compassion, and love. Especially at the times when it needed it most: menarche, pregnancy, childbirth, and recovery. I wish I had showered it in love and patience and honor again and again and again. 

It isn’t too late. I do have remarkably strong ovaries and I just reset for another year. So on this last day of the year, I resolve that 2023 will be a year for me to recognize and celebrate all the messy and beautiful parts of my female body and recognize it as the miracle that it is. A miracle that includes power, awe, humility, creation, life, sacrifice, pain, sorrow, disappointment, uncertainty, connection, beauty, love. A miracle of blood, bone, tissue, cells, and organs. A miracle that deserves gratitude, celebration, honor, and maybe even worship. A miracle that deserves discussion in all sacred places and includes a Heavenly Mother. A miracle that deserves funding and research and tools that alleviate excessive and unnecessary suffering. A miracle to boldly and loudly and openly proclaim for the mothers and grandmothers who were silenced, and for the daughters and granddaughters who are not.