Is This Perimenopause or Have I Just Let Myself Go?

(a memoir in snacks, pyjamas & irrational rage)

At some point recently—possibly while yelling at my indoor plants for “looking thirsty again”—I had to admit something:

I don’t know if this is perimenopause…or if I’ve just…completely let myself go.

I’ve become someone who celebrates changing the bed sheets like it’s a personal victory. I no longer go to events—I RSVP “maybe” and then ghost like it’s my job. And my idea of cardio is speed walking to the front door because I forgot I ordered Uber Eats and the poor driver has already seen me in a dressing gown twice this week.

Let me take you on a journey of symptoms, snacks, and the slow, bloated unraveling of what I now call “life after 40.”

Pyjamas are now a lifestyle

I recently spent $80 on a skincare serum that promises to “restore youthful glow,” and then proceeded to wear the same pair of pyjama pants for two days straight.

They have a hole in them. I still won’t throw them out.

They’ve become part of me, like a hormonal security blanket.

My social life now consists of text messages that start with “sorry for the delayed reply” and end with “let’s catch up soon,” which we both know is code for never, unless one of us wins an award or ends up on the news.

Brain fog or just a personality shift?

I once stood in the kitchen holding a jar of peanut butter, staring at the kettle, completely blanking on what I’d come in for. I then walked away and sat back down on the couch with the peanut butter, no spoon, just vibes.

Later that day I found my car keys in the fridge and the milk in the pantry. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Bloating: the constant companion

The other day I put on a pair of jeans that once fit me comfortably, and they squeaked. Not creaked—squeaked.

I don’t know what part of me inflated overnight, but I can only assume it was punishment for eating cauliflower. Or breathing air. Or looking at bread too enthusiastically.

I used to be great with intermittent fasting, which I considered again until I remembered that I start hearing colours if I don’t eat every four hours. So instead, I stared at a cucumber for moral support and made nachos.

Rage against…literally everything

Last week I had an out-of-body experience in Coles after someone left their trolley diagonally across the aisle. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cause a scene. I just stood there, silently vibrating with rage like a microwave on defrost mode.

The week before that, I cried watching a paper towel ad. Not even a good one. It was just absorbent.

Comfort comes in snack form

I now keep emergency chocolate in three places:

• My handbag
  
• My bedside drawer
  
• And inside a tampon box (no one ever looks there!)

Also, who decided that one protein ball is a serving? That’s a sample, not a snack. I need six. For balance.

This isn’t lazy. It’s hormonal (okay, maybe both)

Look—if you’re reading this in an oversized hoodie, drinking a turmeric latte with a side of guilt for not “doing more”… I see you.

And no, you’re not failing.

Your body is whispering, “Hey babe, I’m in perimenopause and I need different things now.”

Like…

• Real meals, not just sad snacks and leftover crusts
  
• More protein (no, not just licking the lid from a tub of Greek yoghurt)
  
• Sleep rituals that don’t involve doomscrolling til midnight
  
• And a gentle reminder that your metabolism now operates on Windows 95 and needs more support than hustle
  

The TL;DR Version:

If you feel like your body’s rebelling, your brain has gone walkabout, and you’d rather cancel plans than wear real pants—it’s not just you.

It’s your hormones.
It’s your nervous system.
It’s your perimenopause era—and it’s bloody loud.

So no, you haven’t “let yourself go.” You’ve just been surviving without a roadmap.

And guess what? I’ve got one for you.👇

Want to know what the heck’s going on with your body?

Take the Perimenopause Archetype Quiz and finally figure out why you feel this way—and how to feel like yourself again.

No calorie counting. No sad meal plans. No more guessing.

Just real answers, real food, and permission to wear those pyjamas one more day.

👉 Take the Quiz – It Only Takes 2 Minutes

P.S. If you’ve also shouted “Dinner’s ready!” to an imaginary boyfriend so your Uber Eats driver doesn’t think you ordered $42 worth of dumplings for one…

You’re my people.

You’re not alone.

And I swear, you’re doing better than you think.