Written by René Fay

I’m perimenopausal, and combined with being neurodivergent, it’s made organization and communication comically difficult. There are the classic “why did I come into this room?” moments a few times a day, but also the struggle of trying to get thoughts, which feel clear initially, to pass through the dense fog of shifting hormones and still make sense on the other side.

While the ideas in my mind are perfectly formed, every time I try to put them into words, it’s as if they’ve gone through a kaleidoscope, scattered and only vaguely resembling what I meant to say. If ever there were a recipe for frustration, disappointment, and the feeling of failing as a “productive member of society,” this would be it. I’m forgetting things, little and big alike. My organizational skills, which have always been, let’s say, unconventional, are now comically absent. And I’d generously estimate a 50/50 chance that what I communicate actually matches the thoughts in my head. My moods are a complete gamble.

Of course, this is hardly an injustice. It’s just inconvenient in a world that expects us to move at a certain pace and remember where our wallets are. People go through hormonal changes all the time. It’s part of being human. But being common doesn’t make it easy.

When the fog rolls in extra dense and everything feels just out of reach — my words, time, focus — I can sit, dense fog and all. When nothing else is accessible, my cushion is waiting without judgment or demands.

Maintaining a meditation practice through major transitions can feel nearly impossible. It’s easy to get swept up in all that comes with big internal or external shifts. It can feel like chaos, but really, it’s a reminder that everything changes. Keeping a regular practice through it all, as hard as it may be, is a radical act of honoring that impermanence. Especially in a culture that demands business as usual under nearly all circumstances, that expects productivity even at the cost of wellness while setting impossible standards for nearly everything.

So for twenty minutes a day, in addition to all the other benefits of mindfulness, I sit with my wildly imperfect, hormonally imbalanced, ever-shifting self as an act of rebellion. Waiting for me on the other side are emails that will take me ten minutes to answer instead of five, after the three minutes it takes to remember why I opened the laptop in the first place. But for those twenty minutes, I’m simply with myself, as is, without expectation or goal. It’s never felt more important to keep my practice than through this transition that society insists I cover up and push through it. And maybe it’ll also help me keep track of my wallet.