I remember when I first started experiencing hot flashes, night sweats, and brain fog. At that time, I didn’t really understand what was happening to my body. My mind felt cloudy, my body burned as if it were on fire, and I wandered through a foggy state for nearly four years. Strange sensations and emotions surged through me, deep within my cells and bones.

After my late husband passed away, I was highly emotional for the first three days. However, I returned to work within a week as if nothing had happened—business as usual. I also decided to take up triathlons to stay busy and keep fit. I trained intensely over the next four years, completing over eleven triathlons. I poured everything into extreme fitness, keeping myself so busy with work and training that I didn’t pay attention to anything else. While reflecting, I was likely experiencing immense physical and emotional shifts but chose to ignore them. I refused to acknowledge my grief or the complicated emotions that were lurking beneath the surface.

My frozen shoulder abruptly ended my triathlon training, forcing me to confront my body and mind. I consulted various doctors and physiotherapists, most of whom had limited knowledge about frozen shoulders and suggested vague treatments or cortisol shots, which I chose to decline. Initially, I believed my intense night sweats were solely due to the pain from my frozen shoulder, thinking the discomfort clouded my judgment. I didn’t realize at the same time that I was transitioning into menopause. It wasn’t until my periods became erratic—bleeding for a week, stopping for two weeks, then bleeding again—that I began to suspect something more significant was happening. I had a regular menstrual cycle until this point in my life.When I sought medical advice, the first recommendation was to cauterize my uterine lining. There was no mention of menopause nor any discussion about what my symptoms might mean. It felt like a quick-fix solution to stop the irregular bleeding. I said no to the procedure.

Eventually, I was referred to a women’s health specialist. Walking into her clinic felt like a refreshing change from the sterile, impersonal medical offices I had visited before. I was greeted by a woman who reminded me of a female Santa Claus—jolly, warm, and full of wisdom. Immediately, I felt at ease, as if I were in the presence of someone who truly understood women’s health.

She listened carefully and explained that, given my symptoms and age, I was likely entering menopause or even post-menopause. She recognized that stress, trauma, and grief could contribute to an earlier transition. She recommended hormone replacement therapy (HRT) to help manage my hot flashes and improve my overall well-being. I took HRT for a few months and experienced immediate relief; however, since I struggle with compliance, I stopped taking it before leaving the country for six months. As a result, I continued to endure the symptoms.

Reflecting on my journey, I recognize how my body and mind were constantly reacting to my past, my grief, and my resistance to slowing down. Instead of processing my trauma, I pushed myself through extreme physical endurance. Instead of expressing my sadness, I swam. Instead of acknowledging my pain, I ran. Eventually, however, my body demanded that I pay attention.

Frozen shoulder became a metaphor for my life during that time—stuck, rigid, and immobilized by both physical and emotional pain. The anger I had suppressed for years erupted as menopause rage. I felt impatient, furious with my body, and deeply frustrated by my lack of control. It wasn’t until I found a physiotherapist who understood both frozen shoulder and menopause that I finally began my healing process. She reassured me that frozen shoulder is a common symptom in perimenopausal women, something I had never heard before.

Recovery was slow. It took another nine months before my left shoulder was finally released. Then, just as I was beginning to heal, the pandemic hit, and my right shoulder froze. It was as if my body was determined to make me confront my own limitations, my grief, and my need for rest.

I share this journey to tell my story because I know so many of us go through similar struggles without the language or support to understand them. Menopause is not just a biological process—it’s a reckoning. A reckoning with our past, our grief, our societal conditioning, and our evolving sense of self. It forces us to listen to our bodies in ways we may never have before.

And so, I continue to move forward in wisdom, learning to honour my body, my emotions, and the changes that come with this phase of life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, resistance only makes the transition harder. Embracing it—however painful or disorienting—is where the wisdom truly begins.