I’ve gone back and forth about writing this.
Partly because it’s deeply personal.
Partly because it feels like everyone is talking about perimenopause right now.
And partly because I don’t have a neat conclusion, a solution, or a bow to tie around it.
What I do have is curiosity, grief, anger, and a body that no longer responds the way it used to, despite decades of doing the work to support my mental health and heal from trauma.
So this isn’t a blog about “getting through” perimenopause.
It’s about sitting inside it.
And asking honest questions.
A body that feels unfamiliar
In the last quarter of 2025, I stepped more fully into perimenopause.
Some changes were expected. Some were manageable.
What blindsided me was how quickly and deeply it impacted my mental health.
I found myself in the lowest place I’d been in years. Questioning everything I thought I knew about myself. About my resilience. About the systems and practices I’d relied on for so long, personally and professionally.
This was confronting, not just because it was hard, but because I’ve spent my life learning how to hold myself together. I’ve worked intentionally, over decades, to care for my mental health. To regulate my nervous system. To recover from trauma rather than be ruled by it.
And suddenly, it felt like none of that mattered. My hormones had their own agenda. That loss of control sparked a deep anger, an almost primal frustration with my body. A sense that it was failing me after everything I’d done to support it.
And that anger didn’t exist in isolation.
When the body remembers
As my hormones shifted, my body began doing something familiar and unsettling.
In moments of rest.
In sleep.
In those liminal states where the guard drops.
My nervous system returned to hypervigilance.
Old protection patterns resurfaced.
Vivid trauma dreams disrupted my sleep.
My body reacted as though I was unsafe, even when my conscious mind knew I wasn’t.
This was perhaps the hardest part. Not because it was new, but because it was old.
It felt like being pulled back into survival mode, not by memory, but by biology. And that stirred a sadness deeper than I can recall feeling before. Deeper, in some ways, than during the trauma itself.
A grief for the body I thought I had made peace with.
A grief for the sense of steadiness I believed I’d earned.
Trauma, perimenopause, and what the research says (and doesn’t)
As this was unfolding, I did what I always do: I got curious.
There is emerging research suggesting that people with histories of childhood trauma, abuse, or chronic stress may experience more severe perimenopausal symptoms, particularly around mood, sleep disturbance, and hot flushes. Some studies also suggest higher rates of anxiety, depression, and trauma symptoms during the perimenopausal transition.
The proposed explanations make sense on paper:
- long-term stress impacting the nervous system
- altered stress-hormone responses
- inflammation
- sleep disruption amplifying psychological distress
But here’s the part that matters to me and that I think matters ethically.
The data is not definitive.
Findings are mixed. Populations vary. Trauma is measured differently across studies. And perimenopause itself is wildly individual.
What we can say with confidence is this:
Perimenopause affects all people who ovulate, regardless of trauma history.
Hormonal fluctuation alone can bring mood changes, anxiety, depression, sleep disruption, rage, grief, and a profound sense of disorientation. Trauma is not required for perimenopause to be hard.
At the same time, it would be naïve to pretend that fluctuating hormones don’t interact with a nervous system shaped by lived experience.
As always, more than one thing can be true; perimenopause is challenging in its own right, and for some people, it may activate or amplify old survival responses.
Asking for help – again
One of the most humbling parts of this chapter has been recognising that resilience doesn’t mean doing it alone.
I asked for help.
I’m working with my doctor.
I’ve stayed open to support, including medication.
Not because I’d failed.
But because bodies change. Brains change. And care needs to change with them.
This, too, mirrors trauma recovery. There is no finish line. No permanent “arrival”. Just an ongoing relationship with the self.
Why I’m sharing this
I don’t share because I have answers.
I share because I know, from my own lived experiences, that silence isolates.
This feels raw to write. It still feels unfinished. And I’m aware that adding another voice to the perimenopause conversation might seem unnecessary.
But I also know this:
There are people quietly wondering why they feel like they’re unravelling after years of “coping well”.
People who are angry at their bodies.
People who are grieving versions of themselves they thought were stable.
People who are waking from sleep already braced for danger, without knowing why.
If this blog helps even one person feel less broken, less dramatic, or less alone, then it’s worth the discomfort of sharing.
Where I am now
As I step into 2026, I’m holding this season the same way I’ve held trauma recovery; slowly, imperfectly, and with support.
My word for the year is Trust.
Trusting the process.
Trusting the people and professionals around me.
And, most of all, trusting myself, even when my body feels unfamiliar, again.
I am still a work in progress.
And maybe that’s the most honest thing I can say.
If this resonates, if it names something you haven’t had words for yet, please feel free to share it with anyone who might need to hear or read this right now. Especially those in our trauma survivor community who are quietly navigating changes in their bodies, their minds, or their sense of safety.
None of us are meant to walk this alone.
