The thing about being in menopause — and there are so very many things — is that you might not even know you’re in it.
There’s no “now entering fresh hell, population you” welcome billboard. No starter pack and swag bag from your gyno. No retirement party to bid adieu to your egg-releasing ovaries. There will be signs, yes. Irregular periods. A resurgence of acne. But such things can all be written off as simply the plight of being a woman.
It’s only when you (and by you, I mean me) completely upend your life and are now peering at the wreckage in the rearview mirror, that you realize: That was the beginning of the end of my life as I knew it. And that was also the beginning of menopause.
For me, it all started the night I stayed up until 5 a.m. talking to a man who was most certainly not my husband. Let’s call him The Other Guy. We had met through mutual friends and I was stupid-smitten. He was everything my husband wasn’t (this seemed like a good thing at the time), and he was really attracted to me.
This attraction piece was critical. I was a few weeks away from my 12th wedding anniversary and my husband and I would soon “toast” three years without sex. A quarter of our marriage, sexless. The reasons were twofold and cliche. One) After the birth of our daughter, and both of us juggling corporate jobs, we had unwittingly become roommates. Two) I had gained weight. Since giving birth, about 50 pounds on my five foot two frame.
My husband and I never spoke of either. Aside from vague references to being tired and suggestions of “maybe we should start working out.” With so much left unspoken, over time, my brain filled in the blanks:
My husband doesn’t want me anymore.
But I still want to be wanted.
By wanting me, The Other Guy broke the tie.
Having an affair in your 40s feels like Exhibit B of the male “midlife crisis.” (Exhibit A being the convertible purchase.) Women don’t have midlife crises, we’re led to believe. But when you look at it, menopause is a woman’s midlife crisis.
You’re gaining weight. And you’re losing everything else — your mind, your memory, your youth, your hair, your sleep, every last fiber of your patience. These are all fairly common menopause symptoms, but many women (including myself) don’t connect the dots while they’re actually happening.
This life change is so shrouded in misunderstanding that we don’t even call it by the right name. Menopause is technically one day — the first day you have not had a period for 12 consecutive months. Menopause is the destination, but perimenopause is the journey. And this girl is here for a long time, not a good time. The average woman is in perimenopause for four years, though some women can experience symptoms for nearly a decade.
I now understand why perimenopause is casually referred to as a “second puberty.” My affair made me feel like I was 44 going on 14. The Other Guy was all I thought about. I snuck off to see him during work breaks and wrote him poetic texts. I felt desired in ways that I hadn’t since my early 20s, even though I was rocking the body of a woman in her mid-40s. But I was also moody, rash, and on edge. My marriage seemed doomed. And there was no one to talk me off the ledge. In puberty, you’re protected and parented. No matter how emotional you are, you get a free pass. But In perimenopause, you’re the parent, even if you’re childless. There’s no excuse, no grace. 
It’s no wonder that the mental side effects of perimenopause are expansive and life-altering — including mood swings, brain fog, anxiety, and yes, depression. More pointedly, perimenopausal women have a 40% higher risk of experiencing depression than premenopausal women, a global analysis of research suggests.
My mental state was marked by an extreme irritability (another side effect cited in perimenopausal research) that triggered my fight or flight response. I wanted to escape — from my body, my brain, and marriage.
I sought therapy, but my therapist never once mentioned perimenopause as a character in this play. The narrative was always whether or not I was in love with my husband. My friends, many a good half-decade younger than me, were not at that stage with me. And MenoTok — the side of TikTok that stepped in to educate women where the medical community had failed — was not yet a thing. (This was pre-Covid, 2019.)
I only had myself. And from my vantage point, perimenopause felt like a five-car pileup of symptoms without being able to pinpoint who caused the accident: My waist went from 30 to 36 inches (must be stress and cortisol). Joint pain (guess i have arthritis now due to this weight gain). A certain rage and impulsivity. Feeling trapped in my marriage (call the divorce lawyer).
Perimenopause was at the wheel the whole time. But I didn’t realize I was in perimenopause until recently, when I ran into a former colleague at a book party. She, too, had grappled with leaving her husband, and unlike me, had an incredible gynecologist who teased out the change of life and put her on Hormone Replacement Therapy. She is still married. Happily now, too.
Would HRT have saved my marriage? Perhaps not. But it would have been nice to consider it as an option. It would have been nice for someone else to have understood what I was going through, because I so clearly did not.
Instead, I am two years out from my divorce. I am still in perimenopause with irregular periods. But the irritability has begun to ease. Partly because of a recommitment to my health. I have lost about 20 of the 50 pounds I gained. The rest has been slow to come off, so I am now lifting weights — a love of mine from my 20s. Research shows how crucial muscle-building is to all women, but especially perimenopausal women. I also like the mind-over-matter-ness of it all. Yes, you can lift the 30-pound weights. Yes, you have one more rep in you. You are stronger than you think.
I am stronger than I think. 
Beyond losing weight, I’m coming to terms with what I’ve lost. My marriage, yes. But also the body I once knew. The way I was perceived in that old body vs. my new body. Especially by men.
The Other Guy is no longer in the picture. In fact, my desire for any man practically evaporated once I separated. Will that desire ever come back? For now, it seems like the wrong question. In talking to a friend recently, I referred to this whole perimenopause process as a “PM” — the evening of womanhood. It’s sunset, the magic hour, and I’m finally stepping into my light.