February 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 1

In 2012, when I was 41 years old I was in the best shape of my life. I was a competitive CrossFit athlete and a professional dancer. I was a masters-level pole dancer, an aerialist, and competed in obstacle course races and mountain foot races. Within five years, everything changed.

I still trained regularly, attended dance intensives, and went to aerial silks classes. I wasn’t doing well. I got fatigued quickly. My hearing vanished into a boiling kettle screech of tinnitus. My vision faded and I had to grab onto something lest I collapse. One day I went to a dance workshop and didn’t even make it through the warm-up.

At first I thought there was something wrong with my heart. Bad hearts are common in my family. I wore a monitor for a week and did periodic stress tests, but was told I had nothing to fear. My ticker was terrific.

Throughout my life, I was always flat-chested and bony with well-defined muscles. Despite all my weightlifting, my muscles rarely got bigger. They just got harder, and the lines between them deeper. My body was changing. For the first time, my muscles were growing larger, but so were my breasts. They jiggled when I ran, and when I did a bent-over row at the gym, I clocked myself hard in the tits with the dumbbells. I joked about the titty fairy showing up a few decades too late.

The hot flashes that came next weren’t funny. I’d be lifting weights in the gym when I suddenly overheated. Sweat poured from all over my body. One time, I decided to tough it out and push through.

For the first time in my life, I puked during a workout. I hadn’t even been lifting particularly heavy. And when I finished vomiting, I knew I was done. There could be no more exercise for me that day. I left the gym and spent the rest of the day in bed, too destroyed to do anything.

Though I still exercised daily and had a healthy diet, none of my clothes fit anymore. In my youth, I was able to pig out without ever gaining a single pound. Now my clothes were too tight and a sizable muffin top bulged over my waistband.

I’ve always had anxiety, but now the bouts cranked up to full blast and stayed there. It felt like someone ratcheted a belt tighter and tighter around my chest. Anxiety attacks left me hiding under my desk in the dark wondering if I’d completely lost my mind.

I’ve struggled with irritable bowel syndrome all my life, but now the flare-ups wouldn’t let up. All this coincided with a steady diminishing of my sex drive and the appearance of a nervous tic. Whiskers sprouted on my chin and I cultivated the sort of moustache a pubescent boy might think would make him look mature.

It took me a few years to realize I was going through perimenopause.

In 2019, my hot flashes had me sleeping outdoors in the winter. I only came back inside when the temperatures dropped below -10 degrees Celsius. When I slept inside, my mattress was soaked as though I’d pissed the bed.

I wore a rechargeable fan around my neck and a cooling cloth on my head. I stopped exercising, because any kind of exertion triggered severe hot flashes.

I was exhausted with dark circles under my eyes. I couldn’t think clearly. Anxious thoughts ran in circles like a dog chasing its tail. I asked my doctor for hormone replacement therapy. He put me on antidepressants instead.

The changes were so gradual. The only thing I noticed right away was how my hot flashes vanished. My anxiety and exhaustion worsened. Executive dysfunction paralyzed me. I wanted to do things, but couldn’t make myself do anything.

And then I started noticing alarming things about my body. When I stood up for more than a few minutes (eg. to wash the dishes), fist-sized bruises bloomed all over my thighs, black and purple, the likes of which I hadn’t seen on myself since my kung fu days.

My IBS was severe. Defecation was so excruciating it made me vomit. One time, it even made me faint. I woke up on the bathroom floor, confused and in agony.

My digestive system stopped working altogether and I developed gastroparesis. I’d eat something, and food festered in my stomach for a week or more. Instead of the six pack I’d once had, I now looked like I was in my third trimester of pregnancy. My abdomen felt full of rocks. When I ate or drank something, it had nowhere to go and it sat low down in my throat, unable to make its way to my stomach. I was reduced to sipping on Ensure in order to get nutrients into my system. It had to trickle through the undigested food in my gut and gullet.

For the first time in my life, I was sedentary. I shuffled around the house doing the bare minimum. Where I’d once piggybacked my ~300 lb partner at a run, I was no longer able to carry a hamper to the laundry room.

I tried to explain to my doctor what I was going through. Irritated, he told me I was only allowed to give him one symptom per visit. I asked him what I was supposed to do about my other symptoms. He told me I’d have to schedule a separate visit for each one. He didn’t care how hard it was for me to get to his office in the first place. I couldn’t possibly do this every day, especially when I had to walk an hour to get there and back.

Forced to triage myself, I thought the extensive bruising was my most alarming symptom, but he told me I must have bumped my legs on something and forgotten about it.

My last period was in December of 2019. For a few months afterwards, I had all of the symptoms of a period except for the blood. Cramps, bloating, sore back, nausea – the works. My tinnitus grew even worse. My previously healthy skin was ashen and exfoliation no longer removed the old, dry skin.

Since my doctor wouldn’t help me, I contacted the local sexual health centre. They have no resources for people going through menopause. When I asked them where I could find help, they had no answers. Even though menopause hits 50% of the population, it’s as if that half no longer exists in the eyes of the medical establishment.

I kept taking the antidepressants and feeling miserable. After years of constant pain and exhaustion, brain fog overwhelmed me. I had a difficult time understanding simple concepts. When a friend blew up at me, accusing me of being stupid and gullible where I’d once been intelligent and perceptive, I realized this change must be partially caused by the antidepressants I was on. I went to the doctor and told him I wanted off.

He told me how to wean myself from them, and that first weekend was hell. I was living through the agonizing withdrawal scene in Trainspotting. I clenched my teeth so hard that they cracked, so sucked on candies to keep my mouth occupied. Tiny insects scuttled beneath my skin, and I scratched so hard I had bleeding furrows all over. To save my skin, I played with fidget toys. I was simultaneously too hot and freezing cold. My cracked teeth chattered from shivering even while sweat poured off me. I was unable to lie down because bile erupted from my stomach burning my throat in a pyroclastic flow. My skull was three sizes too small for my throbbing brain. I had diarrhea. I vomited. Sometimes I did both at the same time.

I thought I was dying.

I’d randomly be hit with brain zaps: sudden bolts of electrical current running through the brain, like someone is suddenly doing up a zipper at high speed in your head. It finally went away after a few months.

But my menopause symptoms remained. Hot flashes returned. Since the sexual health centre wouldn’t help me and my family doctor refused to acknowledge there was a problem, I ventured outside of traditional western medicine.

I contacted a naturopath. She was also a nutritionist, and she ordered blood tests. On my first visit, afraid I’d be cut off after five minutes like I always was at my family doctor, I blurted out my list of problems as quickly as an auctioneer. She soothed me, encouraging me to take my time.

The relief of actually being listened to almost made me cry. She took careful notes, and made some herbal and dietary suggestions to help with my unbearable abdominal pain. Changing my eating habits eased the agony and after a few weeks, I heard my stomach growl and felt my intestines actually digesting food for the first time in two years. With improved bowel function, my energy started to return, and I was able to exercise again. I started with aquafit at the local community centre, moving at a turtle’s pace with senior citizens in the water. Within the year, I was back to weightlifting.

My naturopath made recommendations based on my bloodwork results. Although she couldn’t prescribe hormone replacement therapy, she told me my magnesium and vitamin D levels were too low. I added these supplements to my diet, and my hot flashes became less severe.

Each time I went to my family doctor, I asked to be put on hormone replacement. He kept refusing, and trying to put me on new antidepressants. After years of begging, he finally referred me to an OB-GYN. But first I had to have a pap test.

Because of my martial arts background and my chronic pain, I have a high pain tolerance. That being said, when the gynecologist slid the speculum in, it was like a roto-rooter tearing me up inside. Like furrows plowing through my vagina, and a red-hot poker harpooning my cervix. I grabbed the sides of the examination table so hard I broke my fingernails. I howled in pain. She asked me if I wanted her to stop, but I knew I needed the results so I shook my head no and she hurried to the finish line.

I left the doctor’s office, trembling like I’d just completed an epic leg day. I hadn’t even realized that my vagina had dried out until that awful pap test.

At long, long last, I was okayed for hormone replacement therapy. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I received a prescription for estrogen gel and a progesterone pill. The treatment worked quickly. I stopped soaking the bed with sweat every night. The terrible itch inside my ears went away. My underwear started having smears on it (I hadn’t even realized that had stopped).

It wasn’t all a relief, though. My breasts had growing pains and went up a few cup sizes and I had to wear a bra for the first time in my life. I had to buy new clothes every few months because I kept getting bigger all over.

I used to imagine myself as one of those hardbody grannies when I got older, but I realize now that is not what my body has in store for me. I’ve gained over fifty pounds since menopause. Where I’d once been highly competitive and felt a strong masculine energy, that has softened into something more matronly. When I look in the mirror, I see a stranger. I feel like I am wearing someone else’s body, and I don’t know how this one works. I miss the manly part of my nature, but have yet to find a doctor I feel comfortable discussing testosterone loss with.

It’s hard for cis women to get treatment. It’s much harder for trans men, Two Spirit, and nonbinary folks.

I’m still experiencing new parts of what it is to be postmenopausal. Ageing is a brutal battle. Most recently, I was diagnosed with adhesive capsulitis, more commonly known as frozen shoulder. This disease has no known cause, but is very common for post-menopausal folks. I first noticed it in late 2024 at a yoga class when I was unable to move one arm in a full arc along the floor.

As the months went on, the range of motion diminished. This is called the freezing stage, and with it comes more chronic pain. I picture the disease as this: my shoulder is wrapped in bubble wrap, and those bubbles are turning hard. As they do so, my range of motion diminishes. I went from being hypermobile to no longer being able to reach up high enough to put my hair in a ponytail. I had waist-length hair, but cut it short to accommodate my new disability. I had a difficult time taking off a shirt or pulling up my pants. If I moved my arm outside its range of motion, my body let me know I needed to stop. If I moved slowly, I could back off as the pain increased. If I moved too quickly, the results were excruciating.

All my life, I had quick reflexes. With a frozen shoulder, this is disastrous. Moving quickly causes injuries. As an example, I was going for a walk with my partner when a gust of wind sent my hat flying. I automatically shot my bad arm up to catch it, and screamed in pain, collapsing against the stone wall beside me. A nearby group of teenage boys jumped up, ready to come to my aid. I had just enough wherewithal to gasp out to them that my partner had not hit me. That I had a bad shoulder I’d reinjured while grabbing for my hat.

I’m grateful they were so quick to jump to my defense. The kids are ok. I’m also grateful they were far enough away that I was able to stop them from jumping my blameless partner.

Though doctors know little about frozen shoulder, there is a treatment for it. It took me months of fighting to get it, and once I finally had my official diagnosis, I went to a sports doctor to receive it. Here’s what I went through: the doctor gave me a couple of injections in my shoulder. First came the numbing needles. I thought these would be very painful, but they were no more painful than an immunization shot. Then, once the numbing had taken effect, the area was injected with saline, flooding the area and plumping it up to give room for a massage treatment to come. I didn’t even feel this happen, although I did get a bit damp from spillage. Then I had a cortisone injection. Immediately afterwards, I went to my physiotherapist who massaged the area thoroughly for about a half hour. I like to imagine he was popping the bubbles in my bubble wrap. I’m not gonna lie: when the numbing wore off, it really sucked. I took high-potency cannabis and spent the rest of the day/night in bed. But when I woke up the next morning, the chronic shoulder/arm pain I’d been experiencing was completely gone. The pain gradually started to return about a month later, but never came back as badly as it was before.

The freezing part of frozen shoulder typically takes about six months to finish. When this portion of the disease happens, the pain leaves. The decreased range of motion will remain for a few months, and then the range of motion gradually returns. Regular exercise helps reduce the length of the healing phase. I lived in hopes that by the end of the year, my range of motion would return to normal, but that didn’t happen.

As of early 2026, I’m in the thawing stage, and can finally reach overhead without pain anymore, but still struggle with my bra and with putting my hair in a bun.

I don’t know what else is coming my way with post-menopause. I don’t know if I’m prepared. But I hope that my story will help you have an idea of what could happen, and help you prepare. You should be aware of your options. You should be able to get that hormone replacement therapy if it is what you need. Not all people have as fraught an experience as I have had with estrogen depletion. For the lucky few, all they really experience is a stoppage of menstruation and its pains. But know this, if you feel like you’re losing your mind and your body is out of control, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Hormone depletion is serious business and can have drastic, disabling effects on your mental and physical health. Educate yourself and your loved ones in advance. There is help out there, and it is worth fighting for.