When the Estrogen Has Left the Building

I know. Perimenopause is having a moment.

Everywhere we turn, someone is talking about hormones, nervous systems, sleep, inflammation, women’s brain health, cortisol, blood sugar, estrogen patches, and the latest supplement that’s apparently going to save us all. It’s certainly taking up a remarkable amount of airtime.

Part of me rolls my eyes. Another part recognizes the privilege embedded in that reality. Entire generations of women crossed this threshold without the language, research, resources, or community many of us now have access to. And of course many women around the world continue to move through it with no space to do anything more than survive it.

Which makes me wonder if this isn’t a trend at all.

What if this is simply the first generation of women with enough awareness, agency, and collective voice to tell the truth about what this passage is actually like?

What has surprised me most isn’t the physical symptoms. It’s the profoundly strange experience of watching a version of myself that I’ve known for decades slowly stop working while the next version hasn’t fully arrived yet.

The woman I have been for most of my adult life is still here. I can see her, I know her, and I remember what it felt like to move through life with her particular brand of competence, capacity, and certainty.

And yet, more and more often, I can’t quite access her.

I’ll be leading a course I’ve taught hundreds of times and reach for an idea, story, or framework I’ve shared for years, only to find the filing cabinet in my brain temporarily empty. The information eventually returns, but not before I’ve stood there wondering if I’ve somehow misplaced an entire part of myself.

The same thing happens in everyday life. No matter how much I accomplish, there’s a persistent feeling that I’ve forgotten something, missed something, or am somehow behind in my own life.

For someone who has spent decades holding an extraordinary number of moving parts and people, it can feel unsettling, humbling, and at times downright terrifying.

There are moments when I feel a bit like Bambi on the ice. The confidence, certainty, and stamina that once felt so natural aren’t gone, but they no longer arrive on demand. I find myself reaching for armor that simply isn’t there anymore.

Because alongside the brain fog, the exhaustion, the disrupted sleep, and the occasional feeling that my mind has wandered off without me, I’ve noticed something else happening.

I have far less interest in performing versions of myself that were built around over-functioning.

I have less energy for relationships that depend on me carrying more than my share, less energy for pretending I’m okay when I’m not, and less energy for proving my worth through productivity, caretaking, or being the one who can always handle it and carry it all.

It’s not that I’ve become less caring. It’s that the fuel source has changed.

The old identity was powered by what I’m now convinced was an elite-level hormonal and neurological startup team. Estrogen was apparently running Operations, Project Management, Accounting, Relationship Management, Logistics, Emotional Support, Strategic Planning, Product Development, Business Development, and Customer Service all at the same time. Somewhere during perimenopause, several members of that team submitted their resignations and nobody left a succession plan.

As this chemistry shifts, I’m finding myself face-to-face with a question many women before me have likely encountered:

Who am I when I can no longer rely on being the one who holds and does it all?

That question is uncomfortable, vulnerable, and messy.

And yet I suspect it may also be sacred.

Because this doesn’t feel like a breakdown. It feels like a threshold, an initiation into a chapter where wisdom matters more than performance, where discernment matters more than capacity, and where being fully ourselves matters more than being everything to everyone.

I’m still finding my footing.

Some days I feel powerful, some days I feel fragile, and some days I lose my train of thought halfway through a sentence and spend ten minutes looking for it.

But more and more, I’m learning to trust that what feels like loss may actually be transformation.

I’m being asked to grieve her. To thank her and to honor all that she carried.

And then, with as much grace as I can muster, to make room for the woman who is still arriving, despite not being able to fully see her yet.

That’s the vulnerable part. The holy part. Standing between what has been and what will be, with no choice but to trust the crossing.

And for perhaps the first time in my life, I’m learning that not knowing isn’t the problem.

It is the path.

Coming Up Next

Next week, The UpLevel Podcast releases an episode where I was coached live on exactly what I've shared here. It's one thing to write about a threshold. It's another to be in it, on air, with someone holding you to it. Subscribe so you don't miss it.