I didn’t see it myself either.

In fact, I didn’t notice it myself either. Or perhaps I glimpsed it somewhere in the recesses of my mind, but I chose to attribute it to something else. Vitamin D deficiency. Stress. Fatigue. Poor sleep. A hectic family life. Moving house. Simply having too much on my plate.

Everything seemed more reasonable than the question: could this be linked to menopause?

Because honestly? I feel far too young for that.

I felt old. At times, dramatically so. When I finally collapsed onto the sofa in the evening, I couldn’t sit comfortably. There was a persistent pain in my right hip, a deep, nagging ache that seemed to originate from within the bone. I tired more easily, caught colds more frequently, and became overstimulated far quicker than before. But above all else, I felt out of balance.

Sometimes, my son would make an offhand comment, and I’d respond far more sharply than I intended. Then, without warning, the tears would come. My mood wasn’t improving either. I even started experiencing hot flushes—during a board game, no less. And this was in the middle of winter. All I could think was: what on earth is happening?

What unsettled me most was that I didn’t entirely recognise myself anymore. Not just in how I reacted, but also in the mirror. Of course, I saw myself—it wasn’t as though someone else was suddenly staring back at me. But there were moments when I’d catch sight of my face and wonder: where have I gone? Where I used to be able to mask a poor night’s sleep reasonably well, my face now seemed to betray everything instantly. It felt as though I were slowly being consumed by quicksand.

Initially, I came up with all sorts of explanations for it. Too much on my plate. Not enough time spent outdoors. Insufficient rest. A deficiency of some kind. Just a phase. Eat better, exercise more regularly, take a supplement, complain less. Because that’s what we often do, isn’t it? We look for something tangible to fix. Something practical. A pill. An earlier bedtime. Less caffeine. More greens.

Yet, in the back of my mind, there was a thought. My mother had gone through menopause in her early forties. So, yes, the idea wasn’t entirely far-fetched. But I *did* find it far-fetched—for me. I wasn’t ready for this. As though anyone ever truly is. As though your body might first send a polite email saying: Dear Anneloes, as of next month, we’ll be entering a new hormonal phase. Please click here to confirm.

But that’s not how it works.

That is exactly what I find so fascinating in hindsight. Because if I, being deeply immersed in this subject, didn’t immediately recognise my own symptoms, how many other women might be experiencing the same thing?

I hear it from those around me as well. Women who feel exhausted, struggle to sleep, respond more emotionally, recover less effectively after exercise, become overstimulated more easily, or suddenly find themselves thinking: why am I behaving like this? Why does my body feel different? Why can I manage everything one week and almost nothing the next?

And yet, menopause doesn’t immediately come to mind. Especially not if they’re still menstruating. Especially not if they believe they’re too young. Especially not if their symptoms don’t align with the image they have: hot flushes, night sweats, irregular cycles, the end.

But real life is rarely that straightforward. Symptoms can overlap. Stress, deficiencies, sleep, work, family, diet, hormonal changes—it’s not always a single, clear cause with a tidy label.

That’s why I’m hesitant to write about it too definitively. Not everything is menopause, but it’s worth considering as a possibility. Perhaps you don’t need to wait until it feels like your body is standing by your bedside with a flashing light to start thinking about menopause.

Anneloes is 39 years old and writes for SeeMe-nopause about women, health, and menopause as it manifests in real life: sometimes straightforward, sometimes perplexing, and sometimes only identifiable in retrospect. She works with language, health, and women's stories, also writes books, lives with her wife and their son, and has realised that even when you are deeply engaged with the subject, it is still possible to miss your own signs.