This Time Every Month

There is something about this time each month that quietly undoes me, not all at once, not dramatically, but in a slow, steady unraveling that I can feel in my body before I can even name it in my mind. I wake up already tired, a kind of tired that sleep does not seem to touch, the kind that sits behind my eyes and in my limbs, making even simple things feel heavier than they should. I move through my days a little slower, a little softer, like I am wading through something invisible, and I keep thinking to myself, what is wrong with me, why can’t I just snap out of this, why does everything feel just slightly off.

And then I remember, or maybe I admit, that it is that time of the month, and suddenly it makes sense, but it doesn’t make it easier.

Because knowing does not cancel out the feeling of it.

I am hungrier, but not in a nourishing, grounding way, it is a restless kind of hunger, the kind that reaches for quick comfort, for things that promise energy but leave me feeling even worse after. I tell myself I won’t give in, that I will stay disciplined, that I will keep showing up the way I do when I feel like myself, but there is a point in the day where I am so depleted, so desperate for a little lift, that I cave. And afterwards, I see it, I feel it, in my skin, in my face, in the way my body holds onto everything, and it becomes this quiet cycle of frustration that I carry around with me.

Even at the gym today, standing under those bright lights, surrounded by mirrors that reflect every angle back to you whether you are ready for it or not, I felt it. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with what I was wearing and everything to do with how I was seeing myself. My legs, moving as they do, completely normal, completely human, but in that moment all I could see was what I didn’t like, what I wished looked different, what I thought should be further along by now. It pushed me to work harder, yes, but not without that underlying sting, that quiet embarrassment that lingers longer than it should.

And I know how this sounds.

I know it can come off as vain, as if I am placing too much weight on appearance, but the truth is it is not just about how I look, it is about how I feel in my body, how at home I feel within myself, and this week, I don’t feel at home at all.

There is an emotional edge to everything too, like my thoughts are a little closer to the surface, a little less contained. The changing of the seasons doesn’t help, because spring has a way of pulling memories up from places I didn’t realize I had tucked them away. It brings a softness, a warmth, a kind of golden light that makes me remember other springs, other versions of myself, other moments that were full and alive and wrapped in a kind of sweetness that I can’t quite touch anymore.

And it is not that those memories are painful, they are beautiful, but I think I am longing for them in a way that catches me off guard.

Hearing that my girlfriend just had her baby stirred something in me that I wasn’t expecting either, something deeper than simple happiness for her, though that is absolutely there. It is a quiet grief, almost, for something that may already be behind me. The experience of being pregnant, of holding a newborn, of being completely enveloped in that kind of love bubble that only exists in that season of life. I didn’t realize how much that still lived in me, how much I might miss it, or wonder if I will ever step into it again.

And maybe I will.

Maybe there is still a version of my life where I fall so deeply in love that I choose to do it all over again, to bring another life into the world with someone who feels like home.

But right now, that is not my reality, and there is a quiet sadness in that truth that I don’t always let myself sit with.

What feels different this week is not that these thoughts exist, because they always have in some way, but that they feel heavier, closer, harder to brush past. Which is what makes me pause and really consider that my hormones are not just a small background influence, but something that is actively shaping how I am experiencing everything right now.

And maybe that matters more than I have been willing to admit.

Because I am working hard, I am showing up, I am doing the things that should, in theory, move me forward, and yet my body is not responding the way I expect it to. And I can keep pushing against that, keep blaming myself, keep thinking I need more discipline, more control, more effort, or I can consider that maybe something internally needs support.

Hormones, breastfeeding, age, all of it plays a role, and pretending that it doesn’t doesn’t make me stronger, it just makes me more disconnected from what is actually going on.

So instead of sitting here spinning in it, wondering and guessing and quietly criticizing myself, I am going to do something about it. I am going to get my hormones checked, I am going to sit down with someone who understands this deeper layer of the body, and I am going to listen to what my body has been trying to tell me.

Not from a place of panic, or vanity, or frustration, but from a place of care.

Because this body, even when it feels foreign, even when it feels difficult, is still mine.

And it deserves to be understood, not fought.