You’ve seen the cutesy memes: “Peri is visiting!” Like she’s some quirky aunt who shows up with wine and unsolicited advice. But let’s be honest. Perimenopause doesn’t slip in with a wink and a glass of rosé. It explodes into your life like a demolition charge—a true menopause reckoning.

Your sleep unravels.
Your moods lurch between apathy and rage.
Your joints ache, your gut revolts, your brain fogs over.
And you’re handed a script—smile, nod, call it “normal,” and quietly stockpile supplements you can’t pronounce.

Here’s what nobody wants to say:
This isn’t just about estrogen.
It’s the cumulative wreckage of decades you spent overfunctioning, undernourishing, and pretending you were fine.
It is the moment your body stops negotiating.

Menopause is the reckoning.

The threshold no one prepares you for—because it would mean admitting that your old identity was never sustainable in the first place.
Who are you when you’re no longer the reliable one, the pretty one, the agreeable one?
Who are you when your nervous system finally refuses to keep the performance running on fumes?

Medicine won’t answer that.
They’ll pat your hand, offer you a prescription, and call it a day.
If you’re lucky, someone might suggest a bioidentical patch.
If you’re a little more “natural,” maybe you’ll collect herbs, tinctures, and adaptogens.

But the endgame is the same:
Make the symptoms go away.
Make the discomfort stop.
Make you smaller, quieter, easier to manage.

Menopause doesn’t want you smaller.
It wants you awake.
It wants you metabolizing the grief, the exhaustion, and the stored-up rage you’ve been shoving into dark corners for 30 years.

This is not a malfunction.
It’s an initiation.

If you’re ready to stop shrinking yourself to fit the story of “normal,” and you want support that won’t insult your intelligence, I’m here.
When you’re done patching over the reckoning and ready to meet it head-on, let’s talk.

If you’re ready to see the ritual—and choose what you keep—I’m here when you are.