Perimenopause wasn’t something that was actively on my radar when it hit. If I’m being honest, I didn’t even know it was a thing before I found myself deep in the throes of the hormonal chaos it rained down on me.
I thought menopause was it.
That somewhere around 50 I’d buckle up for a wild ride, white-knuckle it for a few years, and then move on with my life. Nobody told me this was coming. And if they did, they absolutely did not do justice to the severity with which it could hit a girl.
Even now, scrolling social media, Reddit, and Threads—desperately searching for stories that might reassure me I’m not losing my damn mind—I mostly find the same limited list of symptoms:
Night sweats.
Hot flashes.
Random visits from your menses.
A little adult acne.
Maybe some trouble initiating the waterpark between your thighs.
That’s the highlight reel.
So you can imagine how long it took me to realize that the other things were also part of perimenopause. Things like:
- Random heat rashes and hives
- Near-constant nausea
- Heartburn, acid reflux
- Migraines
- Full-body muscle tension that feels like someone grabbed your nervous system and gave it a good, sustained squeeze
- Light sensitivity
- Stronger body odor (why??)
- Dry mouth
- Tingling fingers and toes
- Anxiety and panic attacks
- Stronger, angrier period cramps
- Dizziness
None of that made the brochure.
For a long time, I assumed I was just falling apart in new and creative ways. That maybe I was broken. Or dramatic. Or missing some major diagnosis everyone else had already figured out.
Now, maybe my situation is a little different—I do have PCOS. Or maybe it’s not that different at all, and you’re nodding along because some of this feels uncomfortably familiar. Either way, with all this chaos happening inside my body, something unexpected started happening on the outside.
I began running out of fucks.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… progressively. Quietly. Like a slow power outage across my priorities.
Things I once bent over backwards for suddenly didn’t feel worth the effort. Social niceties. Performative politeness. People-pleasing. Over-explaining. Shrinking myself to keep the peace. My nervous system simply opted out.
And honestly? I don’t think that part is a bug. I think it might be a feature.
So strap in, folks. I’m a few days out from the Red Scare and already riding the hormonal wave. Below is a short list of ten things I no longer have the energy—or the desire—to give a fuck about as a 39-year-old perimenopausal woman.
10 Things I No Longer Give a Fuck About in Perimenopause: (In no particular order)
10. Backing Out of Plans
I used to be known for my word. If I said I was coming, you could bet your last dollar and fifteen cents that—even if no one else showed up—I would. I’d arrive early. I’d help with setup. I’d fix your hair and makeup if needed. I’d play backup hostess, direct foot traffic, and stay until the very end to help clean up.
I loved being the hostess with the mostest. Showing up and keeping my word was part of my identity.
But now? Oh baby.
I have zero qualms about backing out of plans at the last minute to protect my peace or take care of my body. Some days it takes every ounce of energy I have just to pick up my phone and send a text saying I’m not coming. These days, my body dictates my availability—and I’m completely fine with that.
9. Excelling at Work
Bruh. Be glad I showed up.
Most mornings I wake up in some state of discomfort—lingering acid reflux that led to clenching my jaw all night, light sensitivity that makes turning on the bathroom light feel like medieval torture, migraines that make me feel like I might pass out while getting dressed, anxiety or panic attacks at the thought of driving to work like that, or lately, itching and hives from histamine flares.
About all I have to offer the workplace right now is my presence and my commitment to performing the basic functions of my job description.
I am fighting for my life daily. Why would anyone think I also have the mental capacity to climb the corporate ladder?
Get somebody else to do it.
8. Making and Sustaining Small Talk
I used to be that girl in social settings. You know how murder documentaries always say the victim “lit up a room”? That was me. Networking queen. Ready with a quip, a funny story, or a listening ear.
Now? The moment I catch a whiff of someone who loves mindless chatter, I’m looking for the nearest exit.
With alarms constantly going off in my body—dizziness, nausea, sensory overload—listening to someone ramble about things I no longer have the energy to pretend I care about is asking too much. Please, respectfully, shut the fuck up if you don’t have anything meaningful to say. I do not care about celebrity drama, political gossip, or pretending your dog photos or home improvement project are the most fascinating things on Earth.
7. Pretending Everything Is Alright
Don’t ask me how I’m doing if you don’t actually want to know.
Because if you ask, I’m going to tell you. That might include admitting I’m mentally dissociating because I’d rather be anywhere else, that I’m irritated and ready to go home, that the meeting was pointless and could’ve been a V*, or that the sound of the dishwasher is making me feel borderline violent.
There are exceptions—mostly situations where I’m being paid to remain hinged so I don’t lose my job. But if you aren’t actively compensating me for emotional regulation, you’re about to get some very unhinged answers.
6. Proper Handling of My Clothes
I wasn’t great at this pre-perimenopause, but now? It’s worse.
Most days I come home and shed my work clothes exactly where I’m standing. They will remain there until my closet becomes unbearable and I finally do laundry. Even then, I might wash them (sometimes twice, if I forgot them in the washer), and dry them—but folding or hanging them up? Once a month at best.
Laundry is beneath me now.
5. Showering Every Night
There are seven days in a week. I can promise you my body sees the shower at least four times. That’s all I’m guaranteeing.
Not only do I not have the energy or stability to stand in the shower daily, but showering too often triggers my hives and itching so badly that sleep becomes impossible. I’ve changed water temperature, soaps, towels, even showers. The hives do not care.
On top of that, hormone shifts mean even lukewarm water dries my skin out to the point where I need multiple rounds of lotion just to recover.
So on hive days? The shower will not see me.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
Don’t @ me. I said what I said.
4. Minding My Resting Bitch Face
I used to be hyper-aware of my facial expressions, especially at work, because I live the very real reality of being perceived as aggressive or unfriendly simply for being a Black woman. I made a conscious effort to soften my face so no one projected anger or hostility onto me.
Now? I don’t care.
This is just my face. I’m not guarded, closed off, hiding, or sneering. If it intimidates you—cool. Don’t talk to me. I probably didn’t want to talk to you anyway. If it doesn’t bother you, you’re likely my people, and I’ll light up the moment you speak.
I’m done masking my authenticity through my face.
3. Clearing My Name / Setting the Record Straight
Eminem said it best: I am whatever you say I am.
I used to be hypervigilant about clearing my name and correcting narratives. Now? Believe whatever you want. Your opinion of me is none of my business.
I trust that the people who know and love me know exactly who I am without explanation. I’m busy fighting my own demons—I don’t have the energy to battle the ones you invent or choose to believe.
That’s a you problem.
2. Being in Full Control of My Emotions
I can’t fully keep my emotions in check anymore—and I’m okay with that.
I’m emotionally intelligent and deeply attuned to my environment, but lately the swell of emotions is too big to contain alone. I might cry out of nowhere. I might vocalize anger or frustration in ways I wouldn’t have before.
Cougar puberty is whooping my ass, and most days I’m just a passenger on the ride.
I give myself grace, and I only keep people close who can extend me the same grace—people who know I take accountability, apologize when I’m wrong, and don’t abandon me for being human in imperfect moments.
They’re the real MVPs.
1. Going Ghost
Because I’m self-aware, I often know when I’m about to go off the rails emotionally, verbally, or otherwise. When that happens, I isolate—to avoid bleeding on people who didn’t cut me.
Other times? I’ll ghost you if you get on my nerves. Or if I sense you might.
This isn’t cruelty. It’s containment. I’m no longer holding myself hostage to people, places, or situations that drain, overwhelm, irritate, or stress me out. I will disappear. The length of time depends on the infraction—or my mental state.
I won’t be apologizing for it either.
Cope.
Finally
If nobody warned you about this part either, let me be the one to say it out loud: you’re not crazy, dramatic, lazy, mean, or suddenly bad at being a person. You’re in a body that’s quietly (and sometimes loudly) rewriting the rules without sending a memo. The symptoms don’t always look like the pamphlets, and neither does the emotional fallout. The fewer fucks, the canceled plans, the lower tolerance for nonsense—that’s not you “losing it.” That’s you finally responding honestly to what your body is asking of you. So if this season has you pulling back, speaking plainer, resting more, and opting out of shit that once felt mandatory, you’re not failing. You’re adapting. And if you needed permission to stop explaining yourself and just listen to your body instead, consider this it. You’re not alone—and you’re doing a lot better than you think.
By Adreanna 
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