I watched myself scream at my 12-year-old daughter over a wet towel on the bathroom floor. Not raise my voice — scream. Full-throated, red-faced rage that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. When it passed, maybe 90 seconds later, I stood there shaking, looking at her frightened face, and thought: I don't know who that was.
That was March. I was 44. I'd always been the steady one — the friend people called in a crisis, the mum who didn't sweat the small stuff. But something had shifted, and I couldn't name it.
The Fog Rolled In
It started small, around January. I'd forget why I'd walked into a room. Normal enough, right? Then I started losing words mid-sentence at work. Not complex terminology — simple words like "calendar" or "Wednesday." I'd stand in front of my team, mouth open, reaching for a word that had just evaporated.
By February, I wasn't sleeping. Not the normal new-parent exhaustion I remembered — this was different. I'd lie awake from 2am to 5am, heart racing, mind churning through every mistake I'd made since 1997. Then the alarm would go off and I'd drag myself upright feeling like I'd been awake for three days straight.
The anxiety arrived like weather. Crushing, physical, centered in my chest. I'd driven the same route to work for six years, but suddenly I'd grip the steering wheel, convinced I was about to cause an accident. At the supermarket, the fluorescent lights and choices — 47 types of yogurt — would overwhelm me until I'd abandon my cart and leave.
When the GP Shrugged
I went to my doctor in April. I'd made a list: rage episodes, insomnia, anxiety, brain fog, heart palpitations. I was organized, articulate. I thought she'd run tests, find something fixable.
"Probably stress," she said, glancing at my age on the screen. "You're working full-time, you have kids. Have you thought about meditation?"
I pushed back. "This isn't stress. This is different. Something's changed in my body."
She ordered bloodwork — thyroid, full blood count. Everything came back normal. She offered me a prescription for anxiety medication. I took it, feeling dismissed but desperate.
The medication took the edge off the panic, but the rage remained. So did the fog. So did the 2am wake-ups, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was developing early-onset dementia or finally, after 44 years, losing my grip on reality.
The Therapist Who Helped (But Missed the Root)
In June, I started seeing a therapist. She was warm, skilled, and she gave me tools that genuinely helped. We worked on the anxiety — breathing techniques, cognitive reframing. She helped me see patterns in the rage, how it often came before my period.
That observation sat there between us for a moment.
"Before your period," she repeated. "How regular is your cycle?"
I thought about it. "It used to be 28 days, like clockwork. Now... maybe 24 days? Or 35? I honestly don't track it anymore."
She nodded but didn't push further. We kept working on stress management, on setting boundaries, on self-compassion. It all helped. But it felt like treating symptoms while something deeper churned underneath.
The Conversation That Changed Everything
In August, I met a friend for coffee — someone I hadn't seen in months. I looked exhausted; I knew I did. She asked how I was, and I gave her the honest answer: falling apart, don't know why, doctors say it's stress.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"44."
"And your periods?"
"All over the place."
She put her cup down. "It's perimenopause. I'd bet money on it. Every single thing you just described — I went through it at 43."
I actually laughed. "I'm too young for menopause."
"Not menopause — perimenopause. It starts years before. And doctors miss it constantly because they're looking for hot flashes and you're still having periods."
When It Finally Made Sense
That night, I started reading everything I could find. Most of it was vague ("a natural transition") or focused only on hot flashes. Then I found a guide called CHAOS that laid out symptoms in plain language — not medical jargon, not wellness-speak, just honest descriptions of what actually happens when estrogen and progesterone start their erratic decline.
There, in black and white: rage episodes tied to progesterone drops. Brain fog from estrogen fluctuation affecting the hippocampus. Anxiety and insomnia both linked to the same hormonal chaos. Dr. Lisa Mosconi at Weill Cornell has documented how estrogen acts as a neuroprotector, and when it starts fluctuating wildly in perimenopause, cognitive symptoms appear that look identical to early dementia.
I sat at my kitchen table and cried. Not sad tears — relief. I wasn't losing my mind. My brain wasn't broken. My hormones were on a roller coaster, and everything I was experiencing was a documented response to that chaos.
What Actually Helped
The CHAOS guide gave me something my GP hadn't: a framework. It broke down which symptoms clustered together and why. The rage and irritability? That was the progesterone crash in the luteal phase. The guide suggested tracking my cycle — not to predict periods, but to predict mood crashes.
I started a simple chart. Day 1 of bleeding, then count forward. Around day 18-21, like clockwork, the rage would appear. Knowing it was coming changed everything. I'd warn my family: "Rough week ahead, it's not you, it's my brain chemistry." I'd clear my calendar of difficult conversations. I'd go easier on myself when words disappeared mid-sentence.
For the 2am insomnia, the guide explained that progesterone is sedating, and when it drops, sleep architecture falls apart. I stopped fighting it. I kept a book and low light by the bed. Some nights I slept, some nights I didn't, but the panic about not sleeping eased when I understood why it was happening.
The brain fog was harder, but the guide's insight about blood sugar stability made a measurable difference. Protein at breakfast, regular meals, less coffee. Simple, unsexy, but it smoothed out the worst of the cognitive gaps.
Four Months Later
I'm not fixed. That's not how this works. Perimenopause isn't a problem to solve — it's a transition that can last years. I still have rough days. Last week I cried at a tire commercial. Two days ago I couldn't remember my daughter's friend's name, a kid who's been coming to our house for three years.
But I'm not frightened anymore. I understand what's happening. When the rage comes, I recognize it, let it pass, apologize if I need to. When the fog descends, I write things down, ask people to repeat themselves, extend myself the grace I'd give anyone else struggling with their brain chemistry.
My GP still hasn't used the word perimenopause. When I brought it up at my last appointment, she said, "Well, you're still menstruating, so we'll just monitor things." But I don't need her validation anymore. I know what this is.
If you're reading this and recognizing yourself — the rage that seems to come from nowhere, the anxiety that doesn't match your circumstances, the brain that suddenly can't hold onto words or sleep through the night — you're not losing your mind. Your hormones are in upheaval, and that upheaval has real, documented, physical effects on mood, cognition, and sleep.
The worst part of those early months wasn't the symptoms. It was the fear that I was fundamentally broken, that this was who I'd become. Finding the explanation, understanding the mechanism, tracking the patterns — that gave me back my sense of self. Not the old self, but a self I could recognize and work with.
— Simon