October 23, 2025

Fair warning.  

Today, I’m talking about menopause.  That loud and persistent, obnoxious and annoying bitch. 

So maybe not your jam.  Or you don’t care. 

I respect that.  

Feel free to skip this. 

I’d love nothing more than to just breeze past this shit, pretend it doesn’t exist too, and avoid the conversation altogether.  I don’t have a choice.  I’m tits deep in it.  Menopause didn’t ask permission; she just blew right in and set up shop.  And she continues to linger like an unwelcome guest.   A painful hemorrhoid.  I’ve been struggling with it for years now.  Seven-ish, to be exact, in my case. And let’s not sugarcoat things:  there’s nothing glamorous, sexy, or even remotely appealing about menopause—or, frankly, talking about it.

But I’ve got news for you. Approximately, 50% of the world’s population will deal with it.  Right now, someone you know—your mom, your sister, your wife, your aunt, your coworker, your best friend—is either going through it, will go through it, or has already transitioned to the other side. Evidently, menopause, like puberty, doesn’t offer a detour or an opt-out. Trust me, if it did, I would’ve figured that shit out by now. 

These days, I've made it my mission to pull the curtain back on taboo topics—disability, mental health, and now, menopause. I want to demystify and destigmatize things.  The best way I know how to do that is to lay it all out: raw, honest, vulnerable and unflinching.  And of course, with humor.  Duh.  And some cursing.  Ok.  A fair amount of cursing.  Look, humor and cursing are coping tools for me.  My mother tongue and love language.  And they help me through the hard shit.  It’s not for everyone.  I get that.  But it works for me.  

Menopause is some serious bullshit. It’s obnoxious and rude. But worse, it’s insidious. Like a sniper camouflaged by the dark of night, menopause isn’t a one-time-and-its-over kinda thing. Like, it’s not just hot flashes, people. Shit comes on over time, seemingly out of the blue and flies under the radar. Many of the symptoms—anxiety, interrupted sleep, brain fog, fatigue, weight gain, joint pain, crime scene level periods, and general bitchiness—could just as easily be chalked up to everyday stress. It’s almost impossible to separate what’s menopause and what’s the relentless pressure cooker of modern life. Everything blurs together, leaving you questioning whether you’re losing your mind or just reacting to the chaos around you. 

It literally feels like running full steam into a brick wall.  One day you feel pretty good.  Like, normal.  And the very next day, seemingly out of the blue, EVERYTHING changes.  You didn’t change anything.  Your diet.  Your routine.  Your exercise.  But something changed, and you can’t quite put your finger on it.  Because no one is fucking talking about it.  

So, you feel alone.  Broken.  And if you’re like me and have *minor* control issues, you tend to double down, triple down, on all of things that used to work for you.  More cardio.  More hours working out.  Less calories.  Intermittent fasting.  Poop pills off Instagram that are guaranteed to take care of that belly.  And worst of all, you feel shame.  Ain’t nothing cool about Menopause people.  And again, no one is talking about it.  

Here’s how it happened for me and how I’m still navigating the wilderness.  

In late March 2020, at age 49, I began having unexplained symptoms. Like most of the world during early lockdown, I was anxious, irritable, and drinking more wine than I should have as I tried to navigate the shit show of “distance learning” with the kids and be present for Caitlyn’s in-home ABA therapy that we ramped up because well, now we had time for it.  (That’s an entire other shit show and story in itself). Physically, I felt like shit. Bloated, full all the time. A spare tire appeared on my lower belly seemingly overnight.  My body ached every day despite regular exercise and lots of yoga.  I had a home gym with a treadmill, peloton bike, weights and a heavy bag.  I had plenty of time to work out and I did so more or less every day.  I often woke up night after night and for the life of me, couldn’t fall back asleep.  A few nights I woke up drenched in sweat, but that only happened once or twice and was easy to rationalize away.  I never thought for a second they were hot flashes.  What can I say?  Denial is my jam.  

I felt like a stranger in my own body and worse, I had seemingly zero control over it.  Didn’t matter what I ate, didn’t eat, or how much I exercised myself to death.  Despite all my efforts, this new body seems to be here to stay.  

For the record, like so many women of Generation X, I have struggled with my weight and self-image to some extent or another for as long as I can remember. Diet culture and yo-yo dieting is deeply engrained in many women of Gen X. Back in high school and college, I didn’t just flirt with bulimia—I dove right in, desperate to control my weight after I gained about twenty pounds my senior year of high school.  As a lifelong and year-round competitive athlete, this was out of my comfort zone and would not work.

It started with throwing up every so often in high school, but things got real my first year at San Diego State.  The “freshman 15” was the freshman thirty pounds for me.  Beer-fueled parties, trash food, zero boundaries. I scarfed down whatever I wanted whenever I wanted—greasy late-night Albertos Mexican food, bottomless diet sodas, enough candy to rot my teeth, and Costco-sized muffins and ultra-processed carbs that screamed “I give zero shits about nutrition.” My whole “diet” was a disaster, and I didn’t care. Stress? I ate my way through it. Not just regular eating—straight-up binging, cramming way more food than I could stomach, until I felt disgusted, heavy, and totally useless. Then I’d run to the bathroom to hurl it all up. It was a sick, relentless cycle, but it gave me some illusion of control.  

My freshman year I could mostly keep my weight from spiraling. I played club water polo at SDSU; swimming helped a little, and I picked up running to help battle the pounds. But honestly, the whole thing was a messed-up, exhausting roller coaster.

 Bulimia filled me with shame. And disgust. And I wasn’t even good at it. It was so gross. Purging only made me feel worse.  Eventually it wasn’t enough to manage my weight.  I had to find something else to supplement and control my weight. I began running more. Like, a lot more. I was running constantly, practically every damn day.  Exercise has always been my thing—my escape, my way of feeling in control when everything else feels chaotic. I’m a lifelong athlete, so doubling down on workouts was the natural move. It wasn’t new territory for me, and honestly, pushing harder felt like the only answer I had. More sweat, more miles, more effort, desperately hoping I'd outrun whatever the hell was happening to my body.

 Eventually, my dedication to exercise shifted into an obsession, dictating my daily routines, work, and school commitments. I started signing up for marathons, triathlons, and even ultramarathons—constantly chasing the next race or competition to keep myself moving and motivated. While I genuinely enjoyed participating in these events—whether it was running marathons and ultra-marathons, swimming, biking, or completing an Ironman at age 30—make no mistake, it was always about managing my weight. My mindset was if I didn't run at least ten miles, it felt like there was no point to the workout. I remember countless Thanksgivings in my twenties starting with a twenty-mile run, regardless of whether I wanted to or was actually training for a specific race. It didn't matter; I did it just to feel a bit less guilty about the inevitable overeating that day.

Looking back now, especially as a parent to a child with physical disabilities, I feel a profound sense of shame and regret for all the years and emotional energy I wasted on devotion to my superficial obsession with being “skinny.” I can’t help but wonder why I never appreciated my body for all the incredible things it was capable of. I wasted so much time—so many years—focusing on the wrong things.

I can’t get those years back. And that’s on me. 

After years of exercise bulimia throughout my twenties and into my early thirties I got married, had kids, landed my dream job as a flight nurse and slowly but surely became a little wiser with my body and my health. Not only did I lose the desire to train for eight hours at a time, but who’s got time for the relentless hours upon hours of training? Weight training, yoga and shorter workouts with increased intensity replaced long periods of time. With more variety, and smarter-not-longer-workouts, my overall health and fitness started to dramatically improve. However, I realized my eating habits still needed a major upgrade. Even though I swapped beer for wine and tried to include more vegetables and salads, my diet was far from ideal.

The biggest transformation came in 2017 when I switched to a plant-based diet after watching the documentary The Game Changers on Netflix.  Inspired by athletes' stories and looking for an edge as I aged, I cut out meat but continued eating eggs and seafood. I didn't follow veganism strictly but adjusted to what felt right for me. My fitness, health metrics, strength and energy all improved. Treating my body well had finally created a cycle of positivity and strength.

Going plant based also coincided with discovering martial arts. First kickboxing and eventually adding Brazilian Jui Jitsu. Finally, I was fueling my body properly and feeding my soul with martial arts. 

I finally hit the sweet spot! 

And then, Covid and fucking menopause hit, and the wheels fell off the bus.  

Again. 

It was almost two years before I connected my symptoms to menopause, which I discovered by chance. While waiting for a facial one day, I noticed Dr. Angela DeRosa's book, “How Your Doctor is Slowly Killing You: A Woman’s Health Survival Guide.” Dr. DeRosa, who experienced early menopause herself, found that menopause and women’s health are often misunderstood and poorly treated. She was out to change that through education and I was ripe for it. 

As I thumbed through the book, I had my very first moments of, “Oh my God! That’s totally me! That’s exactly what’s going on with me!” I was both relieved and horrified to put it all together. Relieved that I was not crazy! And, evidently, I wasn’t the ONLY one experiencing all these things. And, in fact, it was normal!!! Like, WHAT. THE. FUCK?!! Why couldn’t someone had given me a heads up sooner?  And horrified that, Oh. My. God. I was old.  I was over the hill. I was shriveling up and dying. People think of menopause and think of little old ladies. Hell, I thought of menopause as little old ladies. And now I was here?? I didn’t even know what to do with this information. 

 After reading the book, I scheduled lab work. My OBGYN and primary doctor would prescribe Estrogen and Progesterone but wouldn't prescribe the bio-identical testosterone hormone pellets, which after reading the book and doing some more research, sounded like the right choice for me.  So, I researched a little more and found a doctor in El Dorado Hills who would. I've been her patient ever since and am very grateful for her.

Hormone Replacement Therapy, or HRT, is not for everyone, but it certainly helped me.  Every woman is unique must find what works for them. 

The last piece of the puzzle was realizing that I needed to adjust my diet, yet again, to truly optimize how I felt and how my body performed. For a while, simply switching to a plant-based approach—eliminating meat and dairy—was enough to keep me feeling lean and energized. But no matter how little I ate, how much I doubled down on the exercise, the stubborn belly wouldn’t fucking budge.  It took nearly four years for me to accept that I was out of my league and needed new tools and guidance. I am one stubborn bitch.  In April 2024, I connected with a menopause nutrition coach online who helped me make meaningful changes to my diet. The most significant shift was dramatically increasing my protein intake, basically eating my body weight in grams and strategically balancing carbohydrates and fats around my workouts. And I've added meat back in.  It's just easier to get in the 100+ grams of protein that I consume each day.  It’s taken months of effort, but I finally feel like I’ve found that balance again and am feeling great again.  

Strong.  

Powerful.  

And most importantly, comfortable and confident in my own skin  

Skinny is lame.  Strong is the shit.  

I think of this post as a love letter to my younger girlfriends. A blueprint, if you will. Seriously, I wish to GOD someone would’ve handed me something like this—a map, a clue, a little heads up. And for those of you just stepping into this wild ride, or stuck in the middle of it with me, consider this your validation and a big, messy dose of sisterhood. You’re not alone. I see you. I know exactly how hard, confusing, and downright infuriating it can be. Here’s what I wish someone would have told me: it’s okay to feel lost, pissed off, or even betrayed by your own body. And it’s OK to be real about it, to ask questions, to laugh, cry, and curse if you need to. 

But know that you will find your way through it.  

And as always, this too shall pass.