PART 1: 34+ Symptoms, Zero Chill, and Kicking Its Ass

59 and eight years deep into menopause.

Yikes.

Am I even supposed to say that out loud?
Is this one of those things we’re meant to keep to ourselves tucked away neatly in the “too much information” drawer because it might be considered bad taste?

But really… when did being private become a cover for being ashamed?

Because that’s what it starts to feel like. When we’re told to keep quiet about what our bodies are doing, to not talk about the hot flashes, the chin hairs, the thickening waistlines, it stops being privacy. It becomes secrecy. And secrecy breeds shame.

Especially now, in a world that wants us forever filtered and flawless.
Gray hair? Dye it.
Wrinkles? Fill them.
Laugh lines? Laser them.
Chin hairs? Pluck them in a panic.
Menopause? Pretend you’re just “a little tired.”

Phew. Enough already.

It seems my hormones packed up and left like a delinquent cat slipping out under cover of darkness and never bothering to leave a note. No HRT for me. Just me, my unpredictable moods, a semi-functioning internal thermostat, and a sense of humor that somehow survived the slow, dramatic exit of estrogen from my system.

They say menopause has at least 34 symptoms.
Thirty. Four.
That’s not a symptom list... that’s a trauma checklist.

And is there an end in sight?
Eight years on, I’m still waiting.

It’s never consistent. It’s more like a visit from a fickle friend who shows up unannounced, wreaks havoc within your emotional safe spaces, and disappears just as suddenly, leaving you dazed, confused, and sweating through your undies.

Breathe, Nariman. Breathe.

I’ve experienced everything from burning mouth (yep, it’s a thing) to brain fog so thick I once lost my car… in our own apartment parking lot. Night sweats that make me question whether I’ve spontaneously combusted? Check, I haven't, but I might as well have...

It’s been a ride.

But here’s the deal: I’m not going quietly into that hot-flash-filled night.
I’m not here to whine (okay, maybe a little), but to laugh (mostly at myself), to inform, and to empower. Because menopause may hijack your moods, scramble your brain, and turn your body into a mystery... but guess what?

You’re still here.
Wiser, tougher, and rocking a built-in heat source.

Also, girl… your hotness! It’s spiked to epic levels.
Prove me wrong... I’ll wait.

So grab a fan, maybe a snack (because low blood sugar rage is real), and don your lingerie, yes, the stretched-out, comfy one that no longer itches or rides up and let’s take a tour through the wild, weird, and occasionally WTF world of menopause… and how to give it the finger, with style.

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Why Is This Still a Taboo?

Why does the conversation stall when menopause comes up?
Why is it still so hush-hush?
And how am I, an educated, experienced woman, still so uninformed about something that directly affects my wellbeing and identity?

We women talk about everything:
Bad dates. Great sex. Childbirth war stories. Divorce. Hemorrhoids. Even the time we sneezed and peed a little at the supermarket. But menopause?

Thoughtful silence.
Downturned eyes.
A sudden need to check the oven.

It’s like we all signed a secret NDA the moment our periods ghosted us.

Why?

Maybe because menopause has long been framed not as a transition, but as a termination of youth, beauty, sexuality, relevance.

There’s this sneaky, toxic narrative that once our ovaries clock out, our value declines. That we become less...less desirable, less vibrant, less worthy. As though our ability to bear children or look 39 by candlelight was our only currency.

But let’s be honest: surviving an array of symptoms on no sleep while working, parenting, partnering (or just staying upright) is nothing short of heroic.
Give me wisdom, resilience, and the badassery that comes with surviving this hormonal hurricane over tight skin and silent suffering any day.

And what’s with the obsession with glowing, anyway?
Quite frankly I do my glistening in the bedroom, read into that what you will.

Let’s talk less “radiance” and more realness.
Less smooth skin and more smooth conversations.
Less image consciousness and more god consciousness.
Less glow up and more show up.

Maybe we don’t talk about menopause because we don’t want to acknowledge change.
Fair enough. My body makes sounds now when I sit down my right knee legit sounds like a crumpling crisp packet. My memory? It’s basically cheese.

Just today, I misplaced my car keys again.
Yesterday, I burst into tears reading this meme:

“When you think you’ve been at work for 4 hours but it’s only been 17 minutes.”

Relatable, yes? Exhausting? Also yes.

But if aging is a privilege, why does it sometimes feel like we’re being pushed off the stage the moment we reach it?

Here’s what I say:
Screw that.

We’re not fading, we’re evolving.
We’re trading our eggs for insight. Our periods for peace. Our shapewear for comfort.
Sure, there are days we feel like droeë wors in yoga pants.
But we’re also full of fire, freedom, and finally unburdened by the need to pretend we’re fine when we’re not.

Menopause isn’t shameful. It’s not “the end.”
It’s the plot twist where the heroine gets louder, bolder, and finally stops giving a damn.

Let’s talk about it.
Get informed.
Push for policy change around it...ageist much?  .
Laugh about it. Swear about it. Normalise it, because it is normal.

And guess what?

We’re still here.
Stronger. Smarter. Still sexy. Still powerful.
Just with a fan in one hand and some kind of tonic or supplement in the other.

Warmest (excuse the pun) Regards,

N

Ps. Part 2 coming soon