Let me set the scene.

 

It’s 2 a.m I’m wide awake, sweating through my third set of pajamas. My teenage daughters are finally asleep after an Olympic-level battle over TikTok volume, and I’m debating whether I need to pee or if my bladder is just trying to gaslight me again.

 

Welcome to my new normal.

 

I’m a single mom to twin teenage girls (pray for me). I recently clawed my way back from a mental health and addiction crisis so severe that I needed to go to treatment, in Thailand, no less. You know it’s bad when you cross the world to fix your mind. After years of self-neglect, self-loathing, and using nicotine and numbing as my main coping tools, I finally surrendered. I got the help I desperately needed, and I came out on the other side healing, recovering, and finding ways to live life on my own terms.

 

I’m “smober” now, a fancy term for being smoke-free, so I no longer have my trusty cigarettes to soothe me when life starts life-ing too hard. Instead, I have carbs. Beautiful, doughy, serotonin-spiking carbs. I’ve become intimately familiar with pantry crying, snack hoarding, and the emotional whiplash of asking myself, “Do I really want a sandwich, or am I just bored?”

 

As if the recovery journey wasn’t enough, I’ve also been forced to host the surprise guest star of midlife: menopause. Or more precisely, her chaotic little sister perimenopause. Imagine brainrot so complete that you forget what you were saying mid sentence, sob at commercials, and question whether your mood swings are due to hormonal imbalance or just your ex’s existence.

 

The fog is real. I walk into rooms like a Sims character who just glitched out, wondering what mission I was on. My body now treats fat like it’s a precious heirloom to be hoarded and protected at all costs. My libido? Somewhere on a solo Eat, Pray, Love journey that apparently doesn’t involve me.

 

And while all of this is going on: the sweating, the forgetting, the carb bargaining; I’m trying to get back in the dating pool. The dating pool, by the way, is more like a dating puddle at this age. A lukewarm, slightly questionable puddle that should come with a biohazard warning label. I show up to dates wearing Spanx that double as a medieval torture device, trying to decide if the stomach flutter I feel is excitement or indigestion. 

 

Through it all, the medical community has been… let's say, underwhelming. Doctors, therapists, and counselors have been laser-focused on my mental health diagnoses, slapping on labels and suggesting mindfulness apps, while completely ignoring the hormonal tornado raging inside my body. No one thought to ask about my hormones, my night sweats, my crashing libido, or my spontaneous rage-cleaning episodes. It’s almost as if my ovaries and serotonin are having a turf war, and I’m the one stuck in the crossfire without a helmet.

 

Here’s the thing: despite the breakdowns, the menopausal meltdowns, the near-religious devotion to carbs, and the perpetual brain fog, I am still here. I am still healing. I am still finding ways to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

 

This isn’t a how-to guide. It’s a survival log. A sweaty, snack-fueled, sometimes tear-stained love letter to every woman who feels like she’s falling apart but keeps showing up anyway. If you’ve ever stood alone in the pantry with a bag of Goldfish crackers, cursing at no one, and dripping in sweat and tears, this blog is for you.

 

You might forget why you started reading this halfway through, but I promise, we’ll find our way back together.

 

Welcome to the fuck-mess.