When my period tracker app told me I was 365 days late, I took a screenshot. It was official. Today, according to the medical definition, was my Menopause Day.
Tomorrow, I would be in post-menopause. The past few years, perimenopause. But today.
This was something. Wasn’t it? I stared at my phone, waiting for the app to register the occasion. An explosion of fireworks across the screen? A crown emoji? Maybe that pink box ( period just started!) would turn gold and chime, signifying Next Level.
I was crossing a threshold. This was significant. Something to celebrate, right? I imagined a pop-up message: You made it! You are now in a club with millions of women around the world .
.. until the tone quickly turns bleak .
.. with millions of women drenched in sweat, chills, fatigue, brain fog, weight gain, depression, shame.
Do not talk about it. Be quiet. Be young.
Buy face cream to tighten your jowls — they will be the first things to fall. According to the app, I had not arrived anywhere, I was just 365 days late. And tomorrow, presumably, 366.
It felt like a reprimand, a warning. My initial feelings gave way to dread as some pervasive cultural message resounded: Menopause was bad. I texted the screenshot to my sister, three years older, and she immediately replied.
Her text was full of enthusiastic exclamations, congratulating me, welcoming me into the phase she had entered a few years prior. I smiled, encouraged, feeling uplifted and initiated. I texted the screenshot again,.