On Perimenopause: Letting It Into the Room

I don’t think anyone really tells you what it feels like when it starts.

Not in a way that lands.

It’s not one big moment. It’s more like something slightly goes off rhythm… and then doesn’t quite come back.

I started noticing it in small ways.

Forgetting a word mid-sentence.
Losing my train of thought and not being able to pick it back up in the same way.
A kind of fog that isn’t dramatic enough to name, but is there enough to disrupt.

And in my body too.

Bloated.
Uncomfortable.
At times like I’m not fully at home in it.

What caught me off guard wasn’t just the symptoms. It was the interruption.

I’m used to a certain kind of contact — with myself, with others, with the room. And suddenly that contact isn’t as clean. Something gets in the way.

If I stay with it, from a Gestalt place, it makes sense.

Something is reorganising.

The way I’ve been functioning — the pace, the clarity, the way I move through a day — isn’t quite available in the same way.

And I can feel the pull to deal with that in familiar ways.

Push through.
Ignore it.
Pretend it’s not really happening.

Or swing the other way and resign myself to it.

This is it now.

Neither of those really work.

What’s been more honest is this:

There is something new here.

And I don’t know it yet.

I’ve started thinking of perimenopause as something that has entered the room.

Not something I invited. Not something I particularly like some days. But it’s here.

And if it’s here, then I can either spend my time fighting it… or I can begin to relate to it.

Relating to it, for me, hasn’t been neat.

It’s been very practical, very ordinary.

Noticing when my mind slows and allowing more space instead of rushing to fill it.
Feeling the discomfort in my body and staying with it rather than distracting myself out of it.
Letting my energy levels actually inform what I do, rather than overriding them.

It’s a different kind of adjustment.

Not fixing.
More like recalibrating as I go.

And alongside all of this, there is something else I am beginning to recognise.

A different kind of energy in the body.

Less contained.
Less predictable.
Not organised in the way I am used to.

At times it feels almost unruly — not in a dramatic way, but in the sense that it doesn’t follow the old agreements.

There is a part of me that wants to bring it back into line.

And another part that is beginning, slowly, to wonder what happens if I don’t.

And it’s showing me things.

Not in a philosophical way — in a very direct way.

Am I actually eating in a way that supports me, or just grabbing whatever is quick between clients?
Am I moving my body enough to stay connected to it?
Am I carrying stress as background noise and calling it normal?
Am I resting before I’m exhausted, or only once I’ve hit a wall?

There’s less room now to ignore these.

My body lets me know.

And then there is the therapy room.

This is where I felt it most sharply at first.

Because I’m used to trusting my presence. My attention. My ability to stay with someone.

And suddenly there are moments where that feels… less certain.

A word goes missing.
A thread slips.
My body becomes loud while I’m trying to listen.

It’s subtle, but I feel it.

And with that comes a flicker of doubt.

Am I still doing this well?
Am I missing something?

But when I stay with it, something else becomes clearer.

I don’t need to be seamless to be present.

In fact, trying to be seamless pulls me out of contact.

So I come back.

Again and again.

To the chair.
To my breath.
To the person in front of me.

There is a bit more effort in that returning now. But also something more intentional.

There was a moment where I chose to name it.

Not as a general rule, but because it mattered in that moment.

With one client, I found myself saying,

I didn’t forget the time of our session. I didn’t forget you.
Something in me is shifting, and I am adjusting.

It felt important to say it out loud.

So nothing unspoken sat between us.
So the space stayed clear.

Mostly though, it shows up in quieter ways.

I pace differently.
I listen a bit more carefully.
I’m more aware of when I need to ground myself.

And something else has shifted that I didn’t expect.

I recognise more easily what it is like when your system doesn’t do what you expect it to.

When your mind doesn’t quite cooperate.
When your body interrupts you.

That experience isn’t abstract anymore.

So when a client loses their words, or feels overwhelmed by what’s happening inside them, I meet them from somewhere closer.

Not because I understand it better intellectually.
But because I know the feeling of being disrupted from within.

Perimenopause, in that sense, isn’t outside the work.

It’s part of the field now.

It shapes how I show up, whether I name it or not.

It’s also less forgiving.

I can’t stretch myself in the same way and get away with it.

If I don’t eat properly, I feel it.
If I overbook, I feel it.
If I don’t rest, I really feel it.

There’s a kind of honesty to it.

And perhaps this is the part I am still learning.

That not everything in me needs to be contained in the way it once was.

That there may be something in this phase that is less about holding everything together…
and more about allowing something different to move through.

Even if I don’t yet understand it.

I still have moments where I wish it wasn’t happening.

Where I miss the ease I used to have.

That hasn’t gone away.

But alongside that, there is something else growing.

A different relationship with myself.

Less based on pushing.
More based on listening.

So I’m learning — slowly — to let it be here.

Not as something to get rid of.

But as something I’m getting to know.

Even on the days where I’d rather not.

A small invitation

When something shifts in you — in your body, your capacity, your way of being —

What do you do with it?

Do you push past it?
Do you give up to it?
Or can you stay long enough to get to know it?

Not as a problem.

But as something that might be asking for a different kind of relationship with yourself.