The Rebirth of Self

Rising out of the uterus and moving up to the heart, past griefs. It’s named depression.

Forgetfulness, brain fog, and fatigue are accepted in lieu of rest.

Shifting emotions criticized instead of boundaries respected.

Sweat-drenched sheets, insomnia, bizarre dreams, dry pussy, heavy breasts, aching hips, new pains…HRT, not Valarian root, Black Cohosh, orgasm, Red Clover, yoga.

I began what feels like the most transformational period of my 33 years of bleeding on the day of my 45th birthday.

Alone, in an unfamiliar environment with little language skills. Grieving the 20th year of a life that never was, that my womb nourished to the point of intimacy with death.

Perimenopause is a season of rebirth of self.

A birthing with wisdom.

A new purpose in creation.

Not a medical diagnosis of an ancient experience.

A new joy in the discovery of new pleasures.

A reclamation of the body belonging only to the woman.

An internal labor that requires gentleness with oneself.