The Hot Flash Workout Plan

Once I realized I couldn’t out-yoga or out-salad my way out of this bodily betrayal, I decided to look on the bright side. Maybe all this sweating could at least count as cardio… right?"

If you’ve made it this far, you know my hormones are stockpiling fat like we’re prepping for a zombie apocalypse. And while they’re busy storing “emotional insulation,” they’ve also signed me up for a surprise, fully immersive workout program: hot flashes.

Who needs a gym membership when your body turns into a portable sauna every 40 minutes?

I don’t even have to move. Just sitting still at my desk, minding my business, and BOOM! - full body sizzle. My internal thermostat is so broken, it could be used as a special effects machine in a disaster movie.

My mornings start with yoga. Or, let’s be honest, an attempt at yoga before I collapse in child’s pose and contemplate pancakes or French toast for breakfast. The floor is my friend. And every time I stand up, my joints sound like a wood chipper.

Then comes the true exercise: the Flailing Fan Dance. In the middle of a hot flash, I find myself wildly fanning my face with anything within reach: mail, a hand towel, a tortilla. I’m half modern dancer, half frantic muppet. Arms? Pumping. Core? Engaged. Mental state? Questionable at best.

Some days, I accidentally add in a full emotional abs workout. Like crying in my underwear because my jeans betrayed me again, or rage-cleaning the patio while blasting 90s freestyle hits. Calories burned? Unknown. Sanity splintered? Absolutely.

Then there’s the Night Shift: repeatedly flinging off my covers and the dogs, then begging them to come back five minutes later because I’m suddenly freezing. It’s like a CrossFit circuit designed by Scooby Doo.

The only thing I’m not burning is fat. But on the bright side, I’m more hydrated than I’ve ever been in my life. Silver linings.

Listen, I might not have a six-pack, but I do have a rock-solid core of resilience and a resting sweat rate that could rival a marathon runner. If sweat equity was a real currency, I’d be a billionaire. And while my patience is evaporating faster than my sanity, at least I’m proving that simply existing can be its own kind of extreme sport.

The meltdown years weren’t just about breaking down. They were about clearing the foundation. Sweating out the ghosts. Puffing up with grief and carbs and courage. And holding it all together with humility, humor, and HRT.