HOT
Day 12

Hot flashes (or hot flushes as they are sometimes called), the most common symptom of menopause, are intense and rapid sensations of internal heat and profuse sweating, which for some women can be debilitating. While not entirely understood, they are thought to occur as the brain adjusts to declining estrogen levels. The episodes may be accompanied by a rapid heart rate and/or chills. 80% of peri-menopausal, menopausal, and post-menopausal women get hot flashes. On average, they last 7 years, but they can end in as few as 2 years or last for 10 or more years.
THE MACHINE’S DRONING WHIR lulls me into a soothing rhythm, a suitable backdrop for what’s to come. With my body distracted, arms and legs pushing and pulling in their endless cycles, recasting stress into sweat, my mind activates. I take a deep, intentional breath, let it out slowly, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, I try to pry myself from the chokehold of uncertainty. My shoulders relax, and I welcome the momentary calm before permitting myself not just to replay the events of recent days, but to examine them. To go there.
Letting go for a second, I absently swipe at a bead of sweat that’s dangling from my brow, threatening to find its way into my eye. I reach for the hand towel jammed into the cup holder in front of me, blot my face, then regrip the handle that’s frantically swinging back and forth to the rhythm of my steps. It’s been too long since I worked out, and the sweaty burn actually feels good. I needed this in more ways than one.
I haven’t been to the gym since that fateful day almost two weeks ago, and now my body seems to be thanking me. Well, maybe not yet. But I know it will. My mind, too, is getting what it needs as I permit myself to dive into the mess I’ve been trying not to think about all day. It hasn’t been easy to push it out of mind. It’s been an insatiable monster, consuming my thoughts and actions. But I’ve successfully kept it caged today, until now.
I needed to feel normal for a little while. To feel good, even. I want it to be a good day. A good week. That’s the plan anyway. After all, this escapade I’m on is supposed to be an adventure. A time to reflect; not a punishment nor a reward. More like a reset to give me the strength to go back and tackle my life with all its recent pitfalls.
But I can’t hit reset without trying to understand how I got to this moment. On this elliptical machine. In this gym. On the Celebrity Cruise Lines ship named Reflection. So I finally unlock the bars, release the beast, and free my mind to reflect.
I contemplate how I ended up here: my surreal encounter while going through my email, where it felt like the Universe was actually talking to me through Microsoft Outlook. It seems like pure lunacy, thinking back on it, even to me, but it felt so real at the time.
That’s how I ended up here, but it wasn’t the reason. I only cleaned up my inbox because I didn't want to have a public breakdown in Starbucks while reliving the ridiculous yet unexpectedly serious fight with Connor. The one that was so out of character for both of us. The one that left me reeling and wondering how my marriage could go from “fine” to “dumpster-fire” quicker than my burdensome Maserati SUV goes from 0-60 mph.
But we only fought because of what I said. Because of the news I finally shared. The news I struggled to convey because I didn’t understand it myself. The news that broke the fragile straw I see now was one of the few fibers still binding us together.
And I wouldn’t even have had “news” except for the thief. That damn intruder who once again slipped stealthily into my subconscious and sabotaged me, sending my self-control spiraling out of, well… control. That day, which I’m starting to think of as “Day 1” in this nightmarish new phase of my life, the thief stole my emotional control. It wasn’t the first time, but it was definitely the worst time. This time, it sent me hurling invectives that effectively ended my career.
But the thief doesn’t work in isolation. It’s just one agent of the malicious beast of menopause, which came out of nowhere, with no warning whatsoever, and seems hell-bent on devouring my comfort and dignity in a thousand little (and not so little) ways. Menopause has been the root cause of so many of my recent maladies. It’s the reason I’ve been so distant, grumpy, frustrated, and uncomfortable; all the while wondering what the heck happened to me. The fun me. The me I liked a lot better than this one. The me who had a happy and fulfilling life. Now, that me is nowhere to be found. That’s why I’m here and what I’m here to do: find me, figure out what happened to that person, and fix everything.
I want to blame menopause; I really do. It’s done a number on me. And if menopause is the sole culprit and I can get all the symptoms under control, then theoretically I could reclaim my happy and fulfilling life. But, I wonder, if I peel back the onion even further, will I discover it’s not just menopause? Perhaps that’s not the only thing to blame. Perhaps there’s something more.
The incidents of the last two weeks have upended my life on multiple fronts. And yet, I must acknowledge a strange new feeling taking hold. It wraps itself around me, blanketing my frustration, confusion, shock, anger, and sadness. I can’t shake it off, because it’s more than a feeling. It’s a realization; time is short, and I’ve wasted too much of it.
I begin to wonder if my life needed to be upended.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The sound shocks me out of my reverie. The timer on the elliptical machine chimes to indicate I’ve hit my 30-minute goal. I slow my pace, my heart rate dropping back down to around 100 bpm, as I towel off my sweaty face, hands, and chest.
Unlike the hot flashes that still all too frequently turn me into a drippy puddle of misery, this sweaty episode feels good. Cleansing, even. Like I’m washing away a filmy layer of grime that’s been clouding my vision. I’m starting to see the past with more clarity, which clears a path forward for my journey of self-discovery.

MOODY
Day 1

Fluctuating levels of the hormones progesterone and estrogen affect the brain chemical serotonin, which regulates mood. This can lead to irritability and mood swings during menopause.

“YOU DID WHAT?” Hailey asks incredulously.
“I quit,” I reply matter-of-factly.
“Tell me again what you said,” she insists.
“‘Go fuck yourself,’” I repeat.
“Wow!” She hesitates for a moment. “But did you actually say, ‘I quit’?”
I pause dramatically, looking her squarely in the eye. “Hailey, I just told my boss to go fuck himself. I think it’s implied.”
I bite my lip as shame and triumph tug at me in equal measure in opposite directions. I do my best to ignore the conflict, staring intently into the monitor. Reflected back at me is a familiar face—myself 22 years ago. Although Hailey’s my daughter, she’s always been my little twin. Her green eyes mirror mine, though hers also host flecks of gold and gray that lend them an alluring depth. She also has my wavy mane of brown hair and light skin, but it’s as though someone applied a vivid warm filter, casting a light bronze glow to her skin and darkening her hair just a shade. She looks so much like me, it’s startling. It’s almost as if she had only one parent, which, in a way, is true.
Regardless of how she came to be 30 years ago, right now I’m staring at my very own expression, albeit on my daughter’s face. A face etched with worry. I understand her concern. But, strangely, I have little of my own. It’s like someone took my emotional dial and turned what was earlier a 10 down to a 1.
That’s the way it is these days. My emotions are either explosive or absent; fully on or entirely off. At the moment, they’re off. However, I do squirm uncomfortably in my office chair under her intense, questioning stare. I try not to fidget as I wait apprehensively for her to say something more.
“What will Connor say?” she finally asks.
“I don’t really care,” I respond without even thinking. And in that moment, I realize (somewhat to my own surprise) that I really don’t.
“You don’t mean that?” she asks, though it sounds more like a statement than a real question.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Mom, what’s gotten into you?” She gives me that questioning look again. I know what she means. She’s not asking about this incident or my last response. She means lately.
“Nothing.” I pause, looking away to steel myself before meeting her scrutinizing eyes once again. I can tell she knows I’m lying. I give up.
“Everything,” I say, with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know.” Except I do know—sort of, at least. Suddenly, I’m bone tired, exhausted under the weight of keeping it all in. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine. I want to let it all out, but I’m very aware this is not the time or the place. Hailey, after all, is still at work.
Breaking a long moment of silence, Hailey, as if reading my mind, asks, “What are you doing tonight?" I can see the almost parental concern wash over her face. In that moment, I realize we’ve switched roles.
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t have any plans,” I answer honestly. “Connor is busy this evening.”
In fact, he’s busy most evenings. Clients. Schmoozing. The life of sales. I understand, and I’ve gotten used to it, though I’m a little tired of sitting home alone watching sappy, happily-ever-after movies on the Hallmark channel. It’s a habit I’ve fallen into recently. Sliding into a hot bath and flipping on Hallmark has become my go-to nightly ritual. It’s silly, I know. But I’ve been feeling a bit of a void in both the emotional and happiness areas, and these simple movies check both boxes. They breathe a little of what’s been missing back into me.
“How about we have a little mother-daughter time?” Hailey suggests. “It’s been a while. I’m sure Ben won’t mind. I could use a good meal and a chat. I’ll bring you up to speed on my job. A lot’s been going on, and you can tell me what you’re thinking now that – well…”
She hesitates. I can see her delicately searching for the right words. She’s considering my feelings, my state of mind. She’s always been much better at that sort of thing than I am.
“Well, now that your options are open,” she finally says, with her characteristic diplomacy.
“OK, sure,” I relent. I don’t want to be her burden, but I also really don’t want to be alone tonight. Plus, I do want to talk to someone, and Hailey is the best listener I know. Actually, she’s the best everything I know. I stare in admiration at her, realizing just how much I appreciate and love her. And then it happens. My emotional dial surges back to a 10 as I’m suddenly consumed with an almost overwhelming rush of motherly love. Ugh.
I barely manage to ask, “Where? When?” before my eyes begin to glisten.
“Giuseppe’s? 6:30?”
“Sure, Hon. See you there.” I quickly click the red button to hang up the video call. I don’t want her to see the thief, that menopause-induced stranger who barges uninvited through the door of my soul, stealing my composure.

DEPRESSED
DAY 1 (AFTERNOON)

Hormone changes, sleep issues, stress, difficulty adjusting to one’s body changes, gender stigma, and discrimination, among other factors, all contribute to the increased incidence of depression during menopause. Research indicates that overall, 41% of postmenopausal women feel depressed.

I FIDGET, ROCKING BACK AND FORTH subtly in my office chair as my eyes fill, and the tears spill over. They tickle as they meander down my cheeks, dangling from the tip of my chin before falling into my lap. I don’t even bother to wipe them away. My eyes started welling when I thought of Hailey, my baby, now fully grown. The ferocity of motherly love, combined with my sudden awareness that time is passing so quickly, overtook me. After I hung up, I didn’t even try to fight it. I simply succumbed.
I let the emotions wash over me for a few minutes, giving in completely. Then I picture Hailey’s expression as I hung up: concerned and somewhat wary. My emotions do a 180-degree turn as I realize she was actually feeling protective of me from… what? From myself? My stomach sinks, and my emotions swing with breakneck speed from immense love for her to equally immense irritation at myself. She’s such a good kid. I didn’t mean to worry her.
But should she be worrying? I ask myself. What did I do today?
I behaved so uncharacteristically at the office today. I normally outline, plan, analyze, and then decide before I do anything. I’m known for being stable, thorough, and in control in almost everything I do.
So why did I do that today? I wonder, trying my best to be honest. Was I really ready to quit my job? The reality of my earlier actions suddenly surges over me in a complex wave of, well, not emotion exactly. More like bewilderment.
With my emotional dial back down at a 1, I sift through it all with something best described as a curious detachment. I try to unravel and understand my thoughts and feelings about today’s event, but they come to me in an amorphous heap. It’s like reaching into the tangled mess of an old jewelry box. It’s not one recognizable thing, but rather a blob of many interwoven parts all stuck together and none very functional. Pulling out any single piece is nearly impossible, and yet I try.
I dissect my sentiments one by one. First, I recognize anger toward my boss for passing me over for a role I’ve worked hard for my whole career. The anger is knotted with disappointment, mostly in myself, for not seeing it coming… yet again. Interwoven through that mess is my frustration in a system that tilts the tables toward a generation of men who have run the place for so many years and who see nothing wrong with continuing to do so. My growing discontent with my own life tangles with all of this. From this discontent arises a strange thought, or more like a gnawing awareness, that maybe I’ve somehow missed my calling; perhaps, for all these years, I’ve been going down the wrong path.
Beneath the anger, disappointment, frustration, and discontent, twin gems glimmer: relief that I don’t have to go back into the office and keep pretending to be satisfied anymore, paired with recognition that my options are now wide open. But tarnish dulls their shine. The tarnish of understanding what “options” really means and the dread of telling Connor. Quitting my job was definitely not part of the plan. The plan was that I would get promoted and make more money.
Finally, underneath this messy, poignant heap lies my biggest concern: I don’t feel any of these things, at least not very strongly. I know logically I should. At the moment, though, I just don’t. In fact, the irritation that I feel so little is the only thing I feel. I used to feel and to care. I cared about everything all the time. Too much, in fact.
I wonder when I stopped. Or why I stopped. It seems lately the only thing I really care about is my daughter, who often evokes that overwhelming spike on my emotion meter. She’s the only thing that stirs my emotions. Lately, even Connor doesn’t trigger that response.
I let these thoughts seep through me a while longer before turning my attention back to today’s incident. I thought I wanted that director role, but as I contemplate it further, I make an astounding realization: I used to want it more than anything. Now? Not so much.
I coveted that job 15 years ago, 10 years ago, even 5 years ago. Each time a similar job opened up, I wanted it, and I applied. I was never certain I’d get it, but I always felt I had a chance. Then, each time, my manager overlooked me in favor of someone who pushed harder and was closer to him. The first time, he poached his colleague from another company. The second time, he selected his drinking buddy from another division. Last time, he chose his protégé.
Each time, I received the same spiel: you do great work, but it's not your time. And I never pushed back. I accepted and congratulated the new person who got the role (who was always a man), and I continued to be the good girl who worked hard to excel, did what was expected and then some, and never made waves.
I always taught Hailey to fight for herself—and like the excellent pupil she always was, she does. But I realize now, I never learned to do it for myself. Each time, I did put myself out there. Sort of. I applied. I prepared. I interviewed. At the time, I thought I was selling myself. But thinking back on it now, I come to the eye-opening conclusion that I wasn’t. Not really.
And I never complained when I didn’t get it because, deep down, I always felt that I wasn’t as good a choice or didn’t deserve it, even though logically I knew I was, and I did. I blame it on that little voice, the one I’ve struggled with my whole adult life. The nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me I’m going to fail. I hate that voice. Especially when it turns out to be right.
I replay what happened today, tossing it around, trying to understand why I did what I did, and why I am not more concerned. Then it strikes me like a bolt of lightning from somewhere outside myself: maybe what I want has changed.
This notion takes me by complete surprise. I rotate slowly in my chair, taking in my surroundings as I contemplate the goals and successes I’ve had throughout my life. My office walls are adorned in every manner of award and certificate reflecting my numerous achievements over the years. I examine my diplomas and degrees, seeking some sense of clarity. Or maybe some sense of purpose.
As part of the first generation of women who really had choices, I was born at the very end of the 1960s. The Supreme Court had just ruled in Griswold v. Connecticut that it was unconstitutional for the U.S. Government to prohibit married couples from using birth control. For the first time, this gave women the freedom to choose whether or not to have children.
So, my mother, having options for birth control, chose to have me. She wanted me to understand this, and more importantly, to know that I had choices. She didn’t expect me to marry young and become a housewife as she did, unless I wanted to, of course. It was my choice to go to college and get a degree. That was my plan. I planned to be a professional woman, then maybe a wife, then maybe a mother. I was going to do it all. Have it all.
I ponder this for a moment and realize I do have it all. But somehow, it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. It’s as though I’ve missed a turn on the highway of life. I was smart. I was motivated. The accolades on the wall don’t lie. Always first in my class. Always eager to learn, despite the natural ribbing from my friends. Valedictorian in high school. A swath of scholarships to college. Always digging in and doing whatever it took to be at the top of the class. Magna cum Laude BSEE. Such accomplishments!
But disappointment—an actual feeling, though an unwelcome one—starts to sprout in me. I was supposed to be somebody. I was supposed to accomplish great things. I wasn’t supposed to end up a frustrated (and now unemployed) team lead who tells her manager to, ‘Go fuck himself.’ I planned to live happily ever after. Now I’m pretty far from “happy” and struggling to understand what “after” looks like.
How did this happen? How did I end up here? I wonder all this with that strange sense of detachment. I want to feel something about it, besides that bud of disappointment, but I just don’t.
Is it depression when you can’t feel and really don’t care that you don’t?