My patience was shorter than my understanding

I manage to force out the words: ‘Leave me alone for a moment.’ They sound far calmer than I feel. What I really want to do is snap, but my voice is already on the verge of breaking. I storm up the stairs, and as soon as I step into the bathroom, the tears begin to flow. Not just a few tears here and there—everything comes pouring out.

And as I stand there, I think: what on earth is happening to me? Who am I?

The worst part is that, often, nothing major has even happened. No catastrophe or anything like that. It’s usually something small that hits me in exactly the wrong way. A comment or a question. The same repetitive sound from a toy over and over again. My son or my partner needing something from me at the precise moment when my head is already full, and I just don’t know how to cope anymore.

And then I react more harshly than I want to. Not just a bit short, but the kind of reaction where I can hear myself halfway through and think: stop. You don’t mean it like that. But by then, the words have already left my mouth. And often, another one follows. Deep down, I’m screaming at myself to stop, but my mouth just keeps going.

I can still understand a hot flush. Reacting more sharply feels as though it reflects something about who I am—my character, my patience, my role as a mother, my role as a partner, my ability to simply stay composed while someone asks where the charger is.

And yes, of course, I also get tired, overstimulated, or mentally overwhelmed at times. I was already like that before this phase. It’s just that my reaction now sometimes feels very different from the person I know myself to be.

It takes some time before I can see not just the individual moments, but also the overarching pattern. In the moment itself, my thoughts are mostly: what is going on here? Act normal. Just stop it.

That makes it all the more frustrating. I’m not only sad or angry, but I also end up berating myself afterwards. First, I overreact, then the tears come, and after that, I criticise myself for it as well.

Because I work for SeeMe-nopause, I might think of perimenopause sooner than someone else might. Even so, that doesn’t make things instantly clearer. Knowing that hormones could be playing a role is not the same as understanding why you suddenly react in such a way.

Because in a moment like that, it doesn’t feel like: oh yes, this must be part of it. It feels more like: I’m standing here crying, and I don’t understand myself at all.

And no, I don’t suddenly want to blame everything on menopause. Sometimes I’m just tired. Sometimes the day has simply been overwhelming. But if I notice myself reacting in ways that feel unfamiliar more often, I do want to take a moment to reflect on that. Not to excuse everything, but to understand myself a little better.

Perhaps I don’t need to wait until I’m already standing in the bathroom crying before I take action. I could recognise it earlier: my mind feels overloaded, and I can manage a little less at the moment. Perhaps I’m also allowed to pay attention sooner when my body signals that it’s had enough.

And at home, maybe I could express that earlier too, as soon as I notice I’m starting to feel overwhelmed. That I need fewer questions, less noise, and less commotion for a while. It likely won’t stop my temper from being too short at times. But maybe I’ll understand a bit sooner why that is.

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 discovered that even when you are deeply familiar with the subject, it is still possible to miss your own signs.