Menopause, Meh…

Menopause was something that happened to old ladies. Not to me.

As it turns out, I’m most definitely old enough for it—and more than likely creeping right on through. I’ve never thought of myself as pessimistic. I’m a glass-half-full girl. But the last couple years have been a real doozy.

Hip replacements, hair replacements (okay, extensions—but still), Barrett’s esophagus (and no, not those little plastic clips you put in your hair), a super low heart rate, sleep apnea—and to top it off, I tripped on the sidewalk today and landed on my pinky finger wrong. Not that there’s a right way to land on a fragile pinky.

All this to say, turning fifty—and now fifty-four—has taken a toll. I’ve got some things. None of them are fatal, but dang, sometimes a girl just wants a break.

Losing Weight, Losing Joy

My Yorkie-poo, Mollie, and I have been on a quest to lose weight for at least two years, and all we’ve lost is joy. Somewhere between kale smoothies and calorie tracking, between workouts and weigh-ins, I’ve started realizing that maybe my “before-50” body isn’t coming back. And that’s a tough pill to swallow for someone who’s made fitness her life’s work.

I used to hear my clients—women in their forties and fifties—say, “I don’t know what happened! One day I just woke up with this spare tire around my middle.” I’d nod sympathetically, offer a plan, and think, Well, you probably just need to move more.

Now I get it.
And I’d like to issue a public apology to every woman I ever secretly thought wasn’t trying hard enough.

The Body Keeps the Midlife Score

Here’s what nobody told me: you can do everything right and still wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a hormonal semi-truck. My low heart rate and sleep apnea mean I never feel fully rested. The Barrett’s esophagus? That one’s a slow-burn reminder that aging bodies have their own set of fine print.

My hair thinned (thanks, menopause), but my stylist is basically a magician. My hips? They’re bionic now. They rock. I can run again—which feels miraculous. But apparently walking is still a challenge, since I managed to trip over nothing but air.

The Point (Because I Need One)

Here’s where I land:
I can’t give up. I won’t. The only other option is stagnation, and that’s not a life—it’s a slow fade.

This season—this hot-flash, hair-thinning, hormone-wrecked, body-breaking, sleep-sucking, menopause, meh season—isn’t just about loss. It’s an invitation to shift how I define strength.

Maybe strength now means walking the dog even when I ache.
Maybe it means showing up for my writing, my classes, my wife, my life—without needing to look like I did at 35.
Maybe it’s about living wide awake, even when the sleep apnea says otherwise.

Because the truth is, I’m still here. Still strong. Still healing out loud.

And Mollie and I? We may not be losing weight, but we are finding something else—grit, humor, and a strange, stubborn joy that keeps showing up every time we do.