By Adreanna

I’ve believed in reincarnation for most of my life. And whenever the topic comes up — casually, philosophically, half-jokingly — I’ve always said the same thing:

I want to come back as a Black woman again.

Lately, however, as I find myself deep in the trenches of perimenopause, I would like to formally revise that statement.

Coming back as a man now feels like the smarter, more efficient option. Sure, I might have to endure a midlife crisis. Maybe some libido issues. A little male-pattern baldness — possibly premature. But honestly? I’m fine with that. None of it feels spiritually destabilizing. None of it feels like my body has turned into a rogue state.

Also, men have solutions.

A shiny red sports car.
A woman twenty years younger.
One of those hyper-realistic man wigs I see all over Instagram.
A little blue pill.

Problems identified. Problems addressed. End of story.

Being a woman, on the other hand — especially a woman in midlife — feels like a constant state of what the fuck is happening to me. One day it’s your sleep. Then your mood. Then your joints. Your digestion. Your temperature regulation. Your nervous system. Your skin. And just when you think you’ve adjusted, your body changes the rules again without notifying you.

Add itching and hives that come and go like they’re testing your mental fortitude, and suddenly you’re negotiating with a body that refuses to give consistent feedback.

At this point, I’m not sure I’m mentally strong enough to agree to do this again in another lifetime — at least not without reviewing the terms and conditions.

Let me explain.

The Day My Skin Chose Violence

Today I woke up already irritated with the entire human race, which should have been my first clue that things were not going to go well.

The morning kicked off with itching. Then hives. Then anxiety loud enough that I needed an antihistamine just to convince my nervous system we were not, in fact, dying. I eventually made it to work wrapped in a comfy sweater and fluffy socks and ordered myself donuts and sausage-and-cheese kolaches because at that point joy was no longer optional — it was harm reduction.

About an hour into my shift, I got a notification from a tenant about a suspected gas leak.

Fantastic. Love that for me!

I did what years in property management trained me to do. I sprang into action. I told her to vacate the suite immediately and contact her gas provider. I let her know I was dispatching an engineer to be on-site when the gas technician arrived.

That’s when she lost her mind.

She berated me, insisting it was property management’s responsibility and flatly refused to contact her gas company or leave the building. She explained that she would not be vacating because:

1. The gas smell was stronger outside than inside
2. It was too cold
3. She had customers

Ah yes. Customers. The natural enemy of basic survival instincts.

I calmly explained — again — that gas service is tenant responsibility, that I was working with the best information available, and that she needed to contact her provider. She declined. Again.

When I called her directly, she was running electric appliances in the background.

Electric. Appliances.
During a suspected gas leak.

At that moment, I sat staring at my computer screen, working very hard to temper the disdain, rage, and intrusive thoughts about natural selection bubbling just beneath the surface. I was actively expending what little patience and restraint I had left to reason with someone who was refusing to act in her own best interest — or the best interest of the people currently breathing gas inside her establishment.

And then it hit me.

I had been saved from myself.

Had I accepted another property manager position, this situation would have required far more from me than I currently have to give. And even now, in a reduced role, it was already siphoning off energy I simply do not possess.

I did everything I reasonably could. I contacted the gas company I believe serviced the area. I relayed instructions. I documented the refusal. And then I stopped.

Because here’s the truth we’re all thinking but rarely say out loud:

I do not get paid enough to care more about someone else’s life than they care about their own.

That realization landed like a lightbulb moment — one of many I’ve been having lately.

I am done with property management because I am done trying to save people from themselves while my own body is actively on fire.

Here I was, using the last of my available energy to manage a potentially dangerous situation for someone fighting me every step of the way — while my own hormones, immune system, and nervous system were staging a coordinated coup.

Sound familiar?

It felt exactly like what’s been happening inside my body: alarms going off, conflicting signals, refusal to cooperate, and me standing in the middle trying to prevent disaster with rapidly diminishing resources.

Eventually the situation was handled. No one was hurt. I’m grateful — not because it restored my faith in humanity, but because if it hadn’t been contained, it would have meant more work, more effort, more depletion on my part.

Honestly, it felt like a missed Final Destination moment.

Turns Out, It Wasn’t the Itching

In the aftermath, I sit here still struggling with energy, motivation, and the will to do anything remotely meaningful. The antihistamine has done its job — the itching is gone, the hive on my lip has calmed down — but in its place is that deeply familiar perimenopausal state: tired but wired, dull pressure in my head, body heavy, brain buzzing.

All I want to do is go home, crawl into bed, and disappear under the covers like a Victorian child with a fainting couch.

So yeah!

The itching isn’t the worst part of the day.

The worst part is the emotional toll — the constant recalibrating, the loss of trust in my own body, the way symptoms shift just enough to keep me vigilant but never enough to give me answers, all while trying my hardest not to lose my job for calling out idiocy in real time.

How do women do this every day?
How do we keep pushing through while our own house is actively burning?

Reincarnation may or may not be real.

But I’ll tell you one thing.

I’m done raw-dogging existence in a female body.