You make your coffee the same. Wear the same perfume. But you don’t feel like you. One day feels fine. The next, you want to cry for no reason. Someone asks how you are—you don’t know what to say. You’re not sad. But you’re not okay. Everything’s slightly off. But not enough to name. So you carry it in silence.
Your cycle becomes less predictable
You mark dates. The app says it’s due. But it doesn’t come. Then it surprises you. It’s heavier. It’s shorter. It’s brown, then red. You bleed twice in a month. Then nothing for weeks. You used to plan around it. Now you can’t. It doesn’t follow rules anymore. You stop trusting calendars.
Mood swings arrive without warning
You laugh loudly at nothing. Then feel hollow ten minutes later. You snap over socks on the floor. You apologize. Then cry again. It’s not drama. It’s real. Hormones move without warning. You feel like two people. Sometimes more. Sometimes none.
Sleep starts breaking in strange ways
You used to sleep through anything. Now you wake before dawn, for no clear reason. You lie still. Listen to the quiet. Check your phone. Nothing helps. You dread bedtime. You drink chamomile tea. You try silence. You try noise. You still wake. You still wait.
You’re hot when no one else is
You sit in a meeting and sweat trickles down your spine. No one else notices. You open the window at night. Then close it ten minutes later. Your body can’t decide. The heat comes like a wave. Then leaves without apology.
You forget things mid-sentence
You walk into a room, then forget why. You stop mid-thought. Search for names. You write reminders. Forget where you put them. You reread texts. They look unfamiliar. You worry it’s something bigger. But it’s not. It’s just the shift.
Your body shape begins to shift
Your jeans used to hug you. Now they squeeze. You didn’t eat more. Didn’t move less. But your body looks different. Your waist thickens. Your arms feel softer. You avoid tight shirts. Mirrors feel louder now.
Energy dips without explanation
You rest. Still tired. You cancel plans. You take vitamins. Still foggy. You move slower. Even joy feels distant. You don’t remember the last time you felt light. Everything feels like walking through water.
Your skin and hair don’t behave the same
Your skin flakes in places it never used to. Your scalp feels tight. Your hairbrush fills fast. You moisturize more. But your skin stays dull. Makeup sits differently. You stop using filters. Not because you accept it. Because it doesn’t help.
Your cravings become sharper
You want chocolate before bed. Bread in the morning. Nothing feels enough. You eat slowly. Still unsatisfied. The cravings don’t ask—they demand. You’re not bored. You’re not sad. You’re pulled. That’s hormones too.
People say “it’s just a phase”
They call it “the change.” Like it’s one moment. But it’s not. It’s a stretch. A series. A blur. You want validation. But you get stories. Or silence. You don’t want sympathy. You want someone to say, “Yes. This is real.”
Your body becomes unfamiliar
You feel like you’re watching yourself. Moving inside a version of you. Not wrong. Not broken. But different. You listen closer now. But it’s harder to understand. The signals don’t match. You relearn how to exist inside yourself.
You stop tracking because nothing makes sense
You write down symptoms. Then symptoms contradict each other. You use an app. It crashes. You lose the pattern. You give up. Start again. Then stop again. You surrender the data. Trust your gut instead.
You start grieving things you didn’t expect
You miss your old skin. Your old laugh. The ease of feeling steady. You didn’t expect to mourn your patience. Your sleep. Your softness. But you do. Quietly. Without telling anyone.
You learn to wait without knowing what comes next
You’re told it ends. But no one says when. There’s no countdown. Just time. Just symptoms. You try things. Some help. Some confuse. You learn to breathe through it. Sometimes you laugh at it. Sometimes you don’t. But you keep waking up. You keep going.