I was in my early forties, playing cards at a friend’s house when my girlfriend at the time—who was in her late forties—had a hot flash. It was my first real exposure to menopause through someone else’s experience. She was fanning herself, embarrassed and ashamed, while the men in the room either dismissed or laughed at it. I didn’t understand what was happening, nor did I ask questions. Given the environment of silence around it, I assumed it wouldn’t happen to me and felt too uncomfortable to bring it up.

Through my research and personal experience, I’ve come to see how deeply ingrained the shame and silence around menopause are. It affects our unconscious psyche—this idea that aging makes women less valuable, less seen, and less worthy. And as a white woman, I can only imagine the added challenges faced by women of colour, Indigenous women, and newcomers to Canada, whose experiences are deeply influenced by prejudice. Aging adds another layer to this, and although I can’t fully “put myself in someone else’s shoes,” representation—both in race and in age—is an undeniable marker of how one is treated in the world.

And so, we turn to cosmetic surgery, erasing age from our faces to remain accepted. Some say it’s about self-confidence, but where does our self-worth truly lie? Is it in our appearance? Can we shift culture to value women for more than their youth? Botox doesn’t change my intelligence. But still, we inject, we alter, we erase—because society tells us aging makes us invisible.

At the heart of it, women are cast aside because we don’t fit a narrow mould. We’re no longer in our 20s, no longer the idealized version of beauty. Since menopause, I’ve reevaluated everything—men, relationships, marriage. I spent years perfecting how to please men, diving into guides on how to satisfy them and how to be what they wanted. For validation. And yet, I know now that my worth had nothing to do with that at all. All that energy wasted!!!!!

I’ve bought into diet culture, starved myself for days in the ’80s, and likely suffered from disordered eating—though no one cared, so long as I was slim. And I resent the plastic surgery industry for preying on our insecurities. There’s a difference between correcting a cleft palate versus injecting poison into our lips just to make them fuller. Why? So they’re more desirable for men? Studies show men fixate on women’s lips more than any other body part—part of the construct of beauty in which we are being conditioned to believe we need lip filler to be more attractive, to secure a mate.

I was once asked what I wanted for women. My answer is also the same: economic independence. Imagine the freedom of making choices without financial dependence on anyone else. Imagine how that might change our relationship with beauty standards and with plastic surgery. Would we feel the same pressure to modify ourselves if we weren’t seeking security through attractiveness?

I know why I wanted to be slim. I was taught that blonde, perky, and thin equalled desirability. No one cared whether I wanted a woman instead. My body has been through hell—because I put it through hell, chasing an ideal. Growing up, exercise was my escape, drowning out the voices in my head that told me I was weird and unlikable. Movement replaced self-doubt with a fleeting sense of power. But we didn’t talk about mental health back then. Dysfunction and secrecy were the norm. My body was strong, capable, and coordinated—and yet, I spent years fixated on making it smaller and more palatable. Now, I look back at my younger self—my 20s, 30s, 40s—and I want to wrap my arms around her. Tell her to be kind to herself, that none of this should have been the focus, and that real freedom is showing up in the world as you are.

This silence around menopause—this inability to openly discuss aging—has to change. We need honest conversations, not capitalist-driven solutions selling us vaginal lubricants “for men’s pleasure.” What about my pleasure? Do I need it to avoid pain, or because I’ve been conditioned to think sex and intimacy have to be a certain way? Menopause is normal. And yet, some will suffer in silence, while others will scramble to fix it, as though it’s a problem to be solved rather than a transition to be understood.

Beyond the symptoms, what does entering this phase of life mean? Are we just expected to embrace the role of grandmother, perpetuating yet another societal expectation of caregiving? Some women love caring for others, but I question whether that love is genuinely intrinsic or simply what has been drilled into us. Do we even know what we want outside of what we’ve been told?

I refuse to spend the rest of my life worrying about my weight, hating my reflection because I indulged in dessert, or second-guessing my short hair because it signals something to others. My hair changed during menopause, as it is so much easier to manage short hair. And yet, the world still assigns meaning to it. Why should it matter? I still show up to work with my brilliance regardless of my hair length or colour.

Menopause should be a pause—a moment to stop, reflect, and unlearn. This phase of life is more than just treating symptoms. It’s about deconstructing every message we’ve internalized about who we should be based on our reproductive organs. It’s about recognizing our power—intelligence, experience, and value.

Menopause isn’t something to control. We can’t diet or exercise our way out of it. Society has taught women that our bodies are within our control—shape them, starve them, and mould them to be desirable. But this? This is different. I can’t control it. And in letting go of that illusion, I’ve found peace. Because once we create awareness, we can dismantle the painful self-worth narratives we’ve been handed. That’s the real work of this stage in life. Not “growing old gracefully”—whatever that means—but rejecting the narratives altogether. I don’t want to be defined by gendered expectations. I want to live by my own rules. To exist in this world freely, navigating it equitably, without the weight of outdated constructs.