Yoga, Wine, and Crying in the Pantry

Let’s be clear: I’m trying to be well.

I own leggings. I have a water bottle with motivational time stamps. I even own a crystal I can’t pronounce.

But perimenopause had other plans. My version of “wellness” now looks like a chaotic mashup of half-hearted self-care rituals and survival-level coping. It’s not a lifestyle. It’s a hostage negotiation with my hormones.

Welcome to my Sacred Circle of Sorta-Trying™:

1. Yoga (and other floor-based activities)

Some mornings I make it through a full routine. Other days, I just collapse on the mat and contemplate my life while melting into child’s pose. My joints crack like haunted floorboards, my balance is pure chaos, and my downward dog looks more like a dying goat. But hey, I showed up.

2. Wine (for “heart health,” obviously)

Look. Wine might not be on Gwyneth’s Goop-approved wellness plan, but you know what else isn’t? Public meltdowns. After a day of hot flashes and brain fog so thick I can’t remember why I walked into yet another room, a glass of wine is the closest I get to inner peace.

3. Crying in the Pantry (a spiritual release)

There’s something deeply therapeutic about sobbing next to the peanut butter. It’s private. It’s quiet. It’s surrounded by carbs. After a good pantry cry, I feel like I’ve released something important: tension, shame, mascara.

4. Emotional Snacking & Binge-Watching Ted Lasso

I meal prep. I do. But by 7 p.m., the kale can choke. I want Goldfish crackers, a noodle bowl, and peanut butter straight from the jar (thanks Ted). And if Ted Lasso isn’t my emotional support human, who even is?

5. Accidental Naps & Late-Night Insomnia

My sleep schedule now resembles a toddler on a sugar bender. I either pass out on the couch at 8 p.m. with chips stuck to my shirt, or I’m up at 2 a.m., spiraling FaceBook stories and Googling, “Is perimenopause making me crazy?”

Here’s the thing: self-care doesn’t always look like a spa day or a $15 smoothie. Sometimes it looks like a shaky tree pose, a glass of Pinot, and a solid pantry sob.

This era of wellness isn’t a serene, linear journey. It’s a chaotic rollercoaster of attempts, fails, snacks, and tears. But I keep showing up: on the mat, at the pantry door, with wine in one hand and stubborn hope in the other.

Maybe that’s what wellness actually is right now: not perfection, but the beautiful, sweaty, carb-fueled art of just trying.

Spoiler: all the yoga in the world couldn’t save me from one final ghost - my metabolism.