In my 49th year, I find myself feeling the heat—literally and metaphorically. It’s as if I’m in a perpetual sauna, caught off guard by the waves of change crashing over me.
This journey began a few years ago during a business trip to California with my partner. As I gazed at the sunset from our hotel window, I remarked, “I think I have a fever, but I don’t really feel sick. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” Little did I know, it wasn’t a virus but rather the onset of menopause.
Menopause—something I always thought belonged to the “older” crowd, not to someone like me. At 49, I certainly don’t consider myself old. Yet, here I am, grappling with hot flashes that hit with the same intensity as the Pacific waves outside. They interrupt my day, prompting a deep breath and the urge to shed layers, leaving my younger colleagues puzzled and some older ones nodding in understanding.
Who decided to label this “menopause”? It feels less like a pause and more like a conclusion—one that marks the end of the monthly cycles that have defined me since I was 13, save for a few years during pregnancies and breastfeeding.
It’s a farewell to my dependence on estrogen. Years ago, I kicked a smoking habit; quitting nicotine was hard, but estrogen withdrawal feels like a whole new level of difficulty. The shaking and sweating could easily earn me a role in a gripping drama.
And let’s not forget the metabolism changes! The once predictable rhythm of gaining and losing weight has become a bewildering dance. No more simple tricks to shed those extra pounds!
But, it’s not all doom and gloom. Menopause signals new beginnings—the emergence of unexpected facial hair, insomnia, mood swings, and other delightful surprises that I’m not quite ready to delve into. I cling to the hope that my love for scarves and anything that doesn’t require a zipper will remain intact.
Recently, while shopping for breathable clothes to accommodate my new hot-flash-friendly lifestyle, I was approached by a charming young woman hawking Dead Sea salts. As she massaged my hand, she asked my age. “Forty-nine,” I replied. “Ah, you look pretty good,” she said with a thick accent. I felt a blush rise, only to trigger another hot flash. “What will I look like when I’m no longer drenched in sweat?” I wondered. But I thanked her and moved on, opting for a larger size and some lightweight, breathable fabrics.
Amidst this change, I’ve been reflecting on life. My kids used to love a song titled “100 Years” by Five for Fighting, with the catchy refrain, “You only got a hundred years to live.” While I may not hit that milestone, I find myself at a transitional moment, much like the changing seasons.
At 19, I met my husband, marking the end of my youth and exploration. By 29, I was knee-deep in the “summer” of life, having welcomed my first child. Fast forward to 39, and I was diving back into the workforce, juggling family and career—definitely the busy summer of my life.
Now, at 49, I’m stepping into the “autumn” phase. With two of my three children off to college, it’s bittersweet. I won’t be having more kids, and while I anticipated this moment, the finality still stings.
Yet, I find comfort in the legacy of my mother-in-law, who thrived after 49—earning degrees, making friends, and embracing travel. As she celebrated her 79th birthday, I shared in her optimism for the “winter” ahead.
Autumn has always been my favorite season, a time of rich colors and cozy nights. I embrace the changes and look forward to what the next decades may bring. There’s so much more to life, and even with the sweats, I’m ready to welcome whatever comes next.
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In summary, life is a series of seasons, each bringing its own challenges and joys. As I embrace the changes that come with aging, I’m reminded that every phase has its beauty worth celebrating.