Coping Mechanisms, Madness, and Midlife Mantras

Perimenopause has turned me into someone I barely recognize: part spiritual seeker, part gremlin, part Pinterest mom on the verge of a full breakdown.

And like any woman suddenly possessed by fluctuating hormones, random sweating, and the urge to cry because someone left one spoon in the sink, I’ve developed… coping mechanisms.

Some healthy.

Some questionable.

All absolutely necessary for survival.

Here are just a few of my go-to methods for managing this hormonal hellscape with grace, grit, and occasional public rage:

1. Deep Breathing (a.k.a. “Don’t Scream” Air)

Yes, I breathe. Not because I’m enlightened, but because if I don’t, I might actually explode at the dog for looking at me weird. Sometimes it’s three deep inhales. Sometimes it’s thirty. Sometimes I forget mid-breath and rage-yell into a throw pillow instead. Healing isn’t linear.

2. Wine, But Make It Medicinal

Do I drink a glass of wine some evenings? I do. Do I call it “nervous system regulation” to justify it? Absolutely. Listen, if pinot noir can pair with almost anything, it can easily pair with my unresolved resentment and hormonal rage.

3. Online Shopping for Serums I Don’t Understand

Nothing soothes my soul like adding $117 worth of eye creams and peptide mists to my cart because I scrolled past some post that promised it would “snatch my jawline.” Has it worked? No. Will I stop? Also no.

4. Talking to Myself Like a Victorian Governess

When I feel the mood swing coming, I now whisper things like “Compose yourself, woman,” or “We are not feral. We are simply inflamed.”

Does it help? Sometimes.

Does it make my kids concerned? Definitely.

5. The Rage Walk™

This is not a gentle nature stroll. This is me storming through the neighborhood like a sweaty suburban linebacker, aggressively listening to DMX and mentally fighting everyone I’ve ever dated, worked with, or birthed.

6. Mantras (Most of Which Are Just Swearing Rebranded)

I’ve adopted a few helpful phrases, like:

• "This is temporary.”

• “I can respond, not react.”

• “Don’t go full banshee in Pueblo.”

And sometimes, when all else fails:

• “Fck it.”* (very grounding)

The truth is, perimenopause has forced me to get creative with how I self-soothe. Because sometimes journaling helps. And sometimes you need to blast music, rage-clean the kitchen, and give the middle finger to the universe while eating cheese out of the bag.

This is what healing looks like now: messy, unpredictable, and stitched together with humor, serums, and unhinged breathing techniques.