A Life That Finally Exhales

I know I’ve been a little MIA since the end of 2025, but I’ve entered a new stage of normal in my life—and it’s been… well, weird.

In short, I’ve spent the better part of the last three years studying. In October, I completed my Business Diploma, and in January this year, I wrote my final regulatory exam. For a long time, those milestones felt so far away that I wasn’t entirely sure what life would look like once I reached them—only that everything depended on getting there.

When I look back now, my life feels like a series of overlapping storms, barely giving way to the next before I had time to catch my breath. I became a teen mom at 19. I went through a messy divorce at 22. I learned how to navigate the complexities of raising two children with additional needs in a world where resources were limited and trauma was poorly understood. Along the way, I was also learning how to manage my own mental health, taking a 180-degree leap of faith with a career change, supporting my first child through matric, and holding myself together long enough to finish my studies.

For years, life has felt like survival dressed up as momentum.

On the 21st, I walked out of the exam room with one simple plan: go home, take a bubble bath, and finally read the book that had been sitting next to my bed, quietly judging me for months. I got home, ran the bath, climbed into bed afterward… and promptly passed out for the entire afternoon.

That unplanned sleep felt symbolic, even if I didn’t realise it at the time.

Since then, I’ve entered a period of stillness. And again—it’s weird.

I’m not used to shutting down at 5pm without guilt. I’m not used to coming home to a calm household where everyone has settled into their own routines. I’m not used to cooking dinner without multitasking my way through stress and urgency. And I’m definitely not used to ending my evenings with a book—let alone being on my third one since that exam day.

There’s a deep sense of gratitude in this calm, but there’s also confusion. My brain feels slightly out of sync, like it’s waiting for the next emergency that never comes. After years of operating in survival mode, peace feels unfamiliar—almost suspicious. It’s as though my nervous system hasn’t quite figured out yet that it’s allowed to rest.

I’ve realised that when you spend years bracing for impact, stillness doesn’t automatically feel safe. Silence can feel loud. Calm can feel uncomfortable. And rest can feel undeserved, even when you’ve earned it a hundred times over.

But maybe this is what happens when a nervous system that’s been sprinting for years finally gets permission to stop. Maybe the discomfort isn’t a sign that something is wrong, but rather proof that something has finally gone right. This quiet season isn’t empty—it’s recovery. It’s the slow, gentle work of recalibrating after a lifetime of urgency.

So for now, I’m letting the calm exist without interrogating it too much. I’m allowing myself to read, to rest, to settle into evenings that don’t require resilience or strategy—just presence. If this is what comes after survival, then maybe it’s okay to feel a little lost in it. Healing, I’m learning, doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it arrives quietly, in routines, in early nights, and in the soft turning of pages.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough for now.

Perimenopause: The Part No One Warned Me About

Menopause is a term that almost every woman is familiar with in one way or another. Even if the exact word isn’t used in a specific culture or language, there is always some understanding, story, or shared knowledge associated with this life stage.

You may have had a female family member explain it to you. You may have watched your own mother, aunt, or grandmother go through it. Through school education, whispered conversations, or lived experience, most women grow up knowing—at least vaguely—what menopause is supposed to mean.

No more babies. Hot flushes. Hormonal changes. Sounds like fun, right? As if women didn’t already have enough to deal with.

But perimenopause? That was a term I had never heard before. Not once. Not at school, not in casual conversation, and—most disappointingly—not from a doctor.

I only learned about it once I was already living it.

I had a partial hysterectomy at 27, so I knew there was a possibility that menopause might arrive earlier than expected. What I didn’t know—what no one ever mentioned—was the long, confusing, and often overwhelming transition before menopause even begins.

So, when I started experiencing sudden waves of intense heat that left me flushed and uncomfortable, I didn’t recognise them as hot flushes. When I started crying uncontrollably at the drop of a hat—over the smallest, silliest things, at any time of the day—I thought something was seriously wrong with me. And when the brain fog crept in, stealing words mid-sentence and making once-simple tasks feel exhausting, I felt scared.

I was completely unprepared.

What made it worse was the self-doubt. Was I overreacting? Was I just stressed? Tired? Emotional? Was this just life piling up, or was my body quietly changing in ways I didn’t yet have language for?

Perimenopause is not a single moment—it’s a season. A long one. It can begin years before menopause itself, and its symptoms don’t always look the way we expect them to. For many women, it’s not just hot flushes. It’s anxiety that comes out of nowhere. Mood swings that feel unfamiliar and frightening. Sleep disturbances. Weight changes. Memory lapses. A sense of not quite recognising yourself anymore.

And yet, we don’t talk about it.

We joke about menopause. We warn each other about hot flushes. But perimenopause—the silent lead-up, the emotional and mental rollercoaster—often remains unnamed. When something doesn’t have a name, it’s easy to feel alone in it.

Looking back, I wish someone had sat me down and said: This might happen. And if it does, you’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not losing your mind.

I’m sharing this because I can’t be the only one who felt blindsided by this phase of life. If you’re reading this and recognising yourself—if your emotions feel louder, your patience thinner, your thoughts foggier—please know this: you’re not imagining it, and you’re not alone.

Perimenopause is real. It’s challenging. And it deserves to be spoken about openly, honestly, and without shame.