My Hormones Are Hoarding Fat Like It’s the Apocalypse

As if my mind and soul weren’t enough, my body decided to join the uprising. And trust me, it wasn’t a peaceful protest. Healing glow? Cute. Inflating like a busted pool float? Less cute. My hormones started their survival mission, and apparently my waist was the bunker.

Lately, I feel like my hormones have joined a doomsday cult and are prepping for the apocalypse. At first, I thought it was just a cute little post-rehab puff, you know, “healing weight.” My skin had that dewy, fresh-out-of-treatment glow. I was drinking water, stretching into yoga poses, strutting around like I was the poster child for inner peace.

Then… I just kept growing. Spiritually, emotionally, and very literally outward. My stomach felt like a cement mixer that missed its construction site and parked permanently on my waistline.

It all started when I hit the ultimate trifecta: perimenopause, a mental breakdown, and quitting smoking. All at once. Because why space out your life crises when you can bundle them into one catastrophic combo deal?

I thought the breakdown or quitting nicotine would be the hardest part. Spoiler: it wasn’t. The real villain? My hormones. Convinced we’re living in a famine-stricken, post-apocalyptic wasteland and stockpiling fat like I’m about to hibernate through a nuclear winter.

Once upon a time, I was a size 00. A fun era of low-rise skinny jeans and always being cold. Now? A solid size 4. I know, not tragic by objective standards, but when your jeans whisper “Gurl! Give it up.” every time you bend down, it feels like a personal betrayal.

I eat vegetables. I own workout clothes. I even practice yoga and entertain tragic thoughts like “I should try the Master Cleanse,” while simultaneously inhaling a granola bar. My body clings to calories like they’re VIP concert tickets. My scale? Just a daily reminder that my hips are winning the lottery. EVERY. DAMN. DAY.

And don’t get me started on the sweat. I now perspire from places I didn’t even know had pores (Elbows? Outer ears?). I break a full sweat just pulling off my bra - usually in my car, because I refuse to drive home imprisoned by this torture device after a long day.

Then come the unsolicited wellness tips. Friends suggest celery juice, goat yoga, silent retreats, bee pollen. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to make it through the day without melting into a human fondue fountain.

I know this is my “healing era,” and the spiritual influencers say I should embrace my body with gentle affirmations. But let’s be real, some days, it feels less like healing and more like inflating.

Right now, my only weight-loss strategies involve crying, journaling, and rage-cleaning the pantry of the hormonal grocery haul I blacked out during. Why did I need three boxes of Cheez-Its and a family-sized bag of Reese’s? Because my ovaries told me so.

No, I haven’t made peace with this new, post-breakdown, non-smoking, bloated version of me. I’m still learning to coexist with her. This phase is supposed to be natural, and knowing that offers some comfort. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to throw on a bikini and sing “I Am Woman” at the moment.

Gone is the dream that I’ll “bounce back” to the old me. Now, it’s about learning to love this new version: the one padded with 15 pounds of emotional insulation and ready to outlast the next apocalypse.

On the plus side, if the world really does begin to end? I’m stocked. My hormones got the memo years ago.