Change is hard. Internal voices are at odds. One wants to be wanted. To be seen. To feel the pull of desire again. Another shrinks. Invisible. Desires to fade into the background. Like I don’t matter anymore.
Perimenopause drags me under. Hot flashes. Heavy brain fog. Achy nights. My body feels like someone else’s. My reflection stares back, unfamiliar, unkind. Is it laughing at me?
I feel unsexy. Raw. Exposed. And still I crave touch. Recognition. The validation that maybe—even now—I am still enough. Most days the world forgets me. And when it does, I wonder if I even notice myself.
Loneliness whispers. It creeps in between notifications, in empty rooms, on scrolling feeds. Hollow conversation. Flat replies. It says: too much. Not enough. Inconvenient. Flawed. And yet my pulse insists: I exist. I matter. I ache. I want. I am still here. Give me what you’ve got. Tell me more. Ask me. Connect.
I am my own problem. I push people away. Snippiness. Exhaustion. Brain fog. Closing doors I should leave open. Then I rage at myself about the consequences. For allowing myself to be unseen. For being me. Running in place. A talk-radio loop of criticism in my own head.
And still—I try. I sure do. Tiny, ugly victories. Saying yes when I want to hide. Letting someone in when I want to retreat. Touching my body without disgust. Admitting I’m lonely. Admitting I want. Not for them. For me. I choose me.
I notice the parts of me that still crave. Pleasure. Connection. Existence. Even when tired. Even when betrayed by hormones, by aging, by time.
Maybe being my own problem isn’t forever. Maybe it’s a brutal teacher. Forcing me to look. Raw. Messy. Human. To reach through it. To be seen. To see myself. To insist I matter. Even when staring into someone’s face registers nothing. You see too they forgot about you.
Showing up for myself when no one else does. Insisting on my presence. Even messy. Lonely. Unsexy. That’s defiance. Proof. Despite everything. I am here. I ache. I want. I am human. I am capable. I will stretch to be more me. To be full of love. To swim across the ocean once again. I’m a good swimmer.
K/
Gingerly 