Zero F*cks, Full Power: Notes from the Perimenopausal Trenches

There’s a particular flavor of entirely bizarre that hits during perimenopause. It's like standing in the middle of a whirlwind of emotions—rage, grief, hilarity, horniness (and utter lack thereof), existential dread, and a craving for chocolate-covered salty everything—yet suddenly, from the eye of the storm, a strange serenity rises:

“It’s fine. Everything is fine.” 🔥

Except it’s not. And that’s the point.

This isn’t a soft serenity born from enlightenment. This is the calm forged in the absolute furnace of having no more fucks left to give. It’s the psychological equivalent of taking off the shapewear, throwing the bra in the fireplace, and walking straight into the storm wearing nothing but righteous indignation and rainbow fuzzy socks.

Perimenopause is a wild ride.

Your body throws hormonal tantrums. Your brain goes on strike every third Tuesday. Sleep? She’s either on vacation or you can't even open your eyes long enough to pretend to care. Libido? Missing in action one week, kicking down doors in another county the next. And through it all, society still expects you to smile politely and keep your voice down.

Except… what if you don’t?

What if you snap—not in the destructive way they fear, but in the liberating, shake-the-chains-off way? What if you stop contorting yourself to fit everyone else’s comfort zones and finally just… show up as you are?

It’s no wonder women were once locked up for this.

Not because they were dangerous, but because they were done pretending not to be powerful. And the moment society, or a husband, or the PTA committee, or whoever else was benefiting from your silence and compliance—the moment they realized you were no longer performing the role of “decorous woman”… they panicked.

They couldn’t control her anymore. So they called her crazy. Sent her away. Told others she was broken.

Because if one woman breaks the spell and starts telling the truth—others might follow.

And here’s the truth: This isn’t madness. This is clarity. This is the beginning of you remembering who you were before the world told you who to be. This is unlearning the rules of palatability, rediscovering rage as sacred fuel, and reclaiming joy that isn't curated for consumption.

So if you're in this chapter too—swollen with contradictions, exhausted but awakened—know this:

You're not losing your mind. You're coming into your own.

And somewhere deep down in the bones of history, the women who were called hysterical and difficult and too much? They are cheering for you.

Because you're not broken.

You're free.