November 28th marks my firstborn’s 22nd birthday, and coincidentally, the 22nd anniversary of the beginning of my perpetual exhaustion. I could technically say 22 years and 3 months because that last trimester was a real doozy, but I digress. The point is, I’m tired. So fucking tired. I would dream of a good night’s sleep, except, well, you need sleep to dream. Instead, I just long for one peaceful night and a day where I’m not walking around like the undead.
A quick word to all the new moms out there who think they’ll catch up on sleep when their kids head off to university or get their own apartments: Hahahahaha. Ha. deep breath Hahahaha. No, sweetie. No. Just when you think you’ll be free, perimenopause swoops in, and it’s worse. So much worse. The good sleep? Yeah, it’s gone. All of it. Make your peace with it now.
Besides the wonderful physical and mental perks menopause brings, it also makes sure we sleep even less, just to keep things interesting. Ever wonder why menopausal women are raging? It’s because we haven’t slept enough to deal with anyone’s shit.
And it’s not just me on this quest for sleep. My family is desperate for it too because, like it or not, they’re along for the ride. My daughters, now in their twenties, have started to voice their concerns. “Mom, it’s freezing in here!” they complain, wrapped in blankets and looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. I try to explain that I’m not trying to recreate the Arctic tundra in our home, but my internal thermostat has gone rogue. One minute I’m sweating like I’ve just finished a marathon, and the next I’m shivering like I’m stranded on Mount Everest.
They don’t get it, of course. Their bodies still function like finely tuned machines—regulating temperature, hormones, and, most importantly, sleep. They can fall asleep at the drop of a hat, while I’m across the hall staring at the ceiling fan spinning above me like it’s taunting me. They don’t yet understand the betrayal of a body that once knew how to fall asleep effortlessly. Still, I hold space for them because I know what’s coming for them.
But my partner? The love of my life, the person who completes me? Aside from the fact that he’s nothing but wildly sympathetic and incredibly supportive, I’d still like to punch him square in the face sometimes. How this man can fall asleep anywhere, anytime, as if he had an on/off switch, spawns a blind rage in me that I cannot explain. If he ever woke up to find my pillow aimed at his head, it would be purely instinctual. Sorry, honey, I love you, I do. I’m just writing this on an extra-special day of sleep deprivation.
Trust me, I chase sleep like it’s my goddamn job, but the more I want it, the more elusive it becomes. Here’s what my current nighttime routine looks like:
- Spray my pillow with an overpriced “dream” mist that promises peace but delivers lies.
- Crack the window open, even if it’s -30°C, to keep night sweats at bay.
- Simultaneously crank up the heating pad under my back to soothe my osteo-ravaged shoulders.
- Turn my white noise machine up to “jet engine” because a fart could wake me now—and nobody’s safe if I should happen to fall asleep.
- Turn on my sleep app, hoping it’ll help me forget what made me so angry in the first place.
- Toss covers off, toss covers on, back off again—like the Karate Kid training for a sleep dojo.
- Stare at the ceiling. Plot revenge.
- Fall asleep, maybe, because I also sense that I’m somehow awake. If you know what I mean, you’re a menopausal woman.
- Wake up at precisely 6:30 a.m., regardless of when I fell asleep. My internal clock is the only reliable part of my body these days, except it has no snooze button.
And then I get up, knowing the joy of doing it all over again awaits me in a mere 16 hours. Nap, you say? What is this “nap” you speak of? No, sleep has become my mirage. Always in the distance, just slightly out of reach. And I know I’m not alone. I see you, ladies, with your bags under your eyes and your triple espresso in hand. Solidarity, sister, solidarity.
We’ve got it all wrong. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” isn’t the rallying cry of the ambitious—it’s the desperate prayer of menopausal women everywhere. Because that’s what heaven really is, right? Sleep. Blessed, uninterrupted sleep. Maybe even a dream.
The Perils of Age Dysmorphia, Chicken Baseball, and the FAFO Generation
