Hijacked by Perimenopause: My Unexpected Journey into the Unknown

I wish I could say it was a gradual process — a slow unfolding, a gentle whisper from my body that things were changing. But no. It felt like I went to sleep as myself and woke up in a completely hijacked body. And not just any hijack — it was like someone had hot-wired my hormones and pressed down hard on the accelerator. One moment I was calm, laughing at a meme, and the next, I was in full-blown meltdown mode. Crying, yelling, apologizing, then crying again — all before my morning coffee.

I would picture myself mid-air, trying to snatch the words that had already flown out of my mouth, desperate to shove them back in before they hit their target. But too late. Apologies followed. Sometimes many. And all the while I was convinced — surely, this is an alien abduction.

Then came the exhaustion. Not the kind a nap could fix — I’d wake up feeling like I’d run a marathon in my sleep. No energy. No motivation. Just... heavy. And like clockwork, my internal alarm would jolt me wide awake at 3am every night — staring at the ceiling, mind racing, soul tired.

So off I went to the doctor. The first visit, I was told I had low iron. Made sense — I felt drained. I was handed iron tablets and told to take them religiously. I did. Religiously. But nothing changed. In fact, I felt worse.

Visit two — a second blood test. My iron levels were in the red. This time, they recommended an iron infusion. Hope flickered. Maybe this would save me from losing it completely (or worse, committing a crime of passion out of sheer hormonal rage).

I showed up for the infusion only to be greeted by a male doctor who reviewed my test results and said — very matter-of-factly — “Yes, your iron is low, but I don’t believe you're a candidate for an infusion. Just keep taking the tablets and eat more red meat.”

I sat there stunned, watching the last drops of energy (and civility) leave my body. Whatever little blood was left in me boiled over. Dr. Jekyll in me unleashed. One minute fury, next minute tears. I don’t know whether it was the tears or the sheer desperation on my face, but he administered the infusion on the spot.

For a brief moment, I felt a bit better. But that, too, was short-lived. The symptoms crept back. Sleepless nights. Extreme mood swings. Burning feet. Brain fog. And the kind of emotional instability that left my loved ones wondering where the real me had gone. I was losing myself — and maybe my relationships along with it.

Enter: Dr. Google.

Desperate for answers, I searched every keyword I could think of. I was in my 40s, so I knew I wasn’t menopausal — Google told me the average age was 51. So what was happening to me?

Still unresolved, I decided to try another medical center. This time, I specifically asked for a female doctor. I sat across from her and began explaining — calmly at first. But soon I was sobbing, wailing, blowing my nose, narrating my journey from one confusing diagnosis to the next. I felt embarrassed and defeated. I thought she’d write me off as depressed or hormonal or maybe even unhinged.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked at me with kindness and said, “You’re not depressed. You’re perimenopausal.”

Peri-what? I stared back blankly.

She explained that perimenopause is the transition phase before menopause. A very real, very natural stage in a woman’s life — one that can come with intense symptoms: mood swings, fatigue, insomnia, memory lapses, irregular cycles, and yes... the occasional homicidal rage.

She ordered another hormone test to confirm, and sure enough — there it was. I was officially perimenopausal.

And that’s when the real journey began.

This wasn’t just a diagnosis. It was a wake-up call. A chance to learn what my body was going through, to make peace with the changes, and to embrace this new chapter with grace (and sometimes grit).

Perimenopause may have ambushed me, but it also led me on a path of rediscovery. I’m learning to listen to my body. To advocate for myself. To educate others. And most importantly — to not feel ashamed.

Because this is not the end. It’s simply a powerful, often misunderstood part of womanhood — and I’m here to own it, one sleepless night and one iron infusion at a time.

But more than anything, this journey sparked something deeper in me. It ignited a calling — a need to share my experience with other women who, like me, had no idea what was happening until it hit them like a bolt of thunder and lightning. I don’t want another woman to feel as lost, confused, or alone as I did.

This is why I’ve started speaking up — not just for myself, but for all of us walking this path. Because when we connect, when we open up, when we lift each other — we find strength. We find healing. We find ourselves.

Perimenopause doesn’t have to be a silent struggle. It can be a shared awakening. And together, we’ll navigate it — one honest conversation at a time.