By: Leah Klien
It was the yoga session that did it. You know the one—deep breathing, calm music, everyone looking so serene you’d think they’d just achieved inner peace, or maybe they’d just had a really good nap. Anyway, the instructor says, “Take a deep breath, hold for four, then slowly exhale.” Sounds simple, right? Well, I tried, I really did. But instead of feeling all zen and balanced, I just wanted to scream. Seriously, how was everyone else so calm? What were they breathing that I wasn’t?
I sat there on my pink mat, in my brand-new leggings and top (because, of course, I had to buy the outfit for the occasion), feeling like a failure. How could I be the only one in the room who couldn’t manage a bit of stretching and breathing without losing her cool? I could practically feel my nerves fraying, while everyone else floated through their poses like they were auditioning for a meditation retreat video.
You might wonder, “Why didn’t you just leave?” Well, I’ll tell you why. I had been to the doctor so many times, convinced I was about to keel over because I couldn’t catch my breath. And what did he say? “Try yoga, it’ll help you relax.” So there I was, determined to follow medical advice, even if it killed me. Which, given how I was feeling, seemed like a distinct possibility.
Here I am, 45 years old, and for most of my life, I’ve been pretty content. Never married—not exactly by choice—but I’ve had a good run. A solid job, family I love, nieces and nephews I adore like they’re my own, and plenty of adventures along the way. You could say I’ve been pretty well-grounded, dare I say even happy. Until, out of nowhere, I started waking up in the middle of the night feeling like I couldn’t breathe.
So, naturally, I went to my doctor. Multiple times. Each visit was a 10-minute game of “how are we today?” and his usual round of questions: “Anything stressing you out?” “Nope.” “Any trauma recently? “Not unless you count waiting on line to get an appointment.” “Maybe it’s work pressure?” “Not likely, unless being mildly irritated by my inbox counts as a medical emergency.”
By the third visit, he handed me some relaxation pills and told me to try yoga. So now here I was, in downward dog, feeling more “downward spiral” than anything else.
After the class, I went home, cranked up the relaxing music, brewed a cup of chamomile tea (because apparently that’s what we’re supposed to do now), and tried to relax. Spoiler: I couldn’t. I lay there, wide-eyed, while my brain went into overdrive. “Maybe I’m having a nervous breakdown,” I thought. “Or worse… maybe it’s something serious.”
Cue late-night Google searches. Big mistake. According to Dr. Google, I was on the verge of heart failure, lung disease, and about six other terrifying diagnoses. I was moments away from calling an ambulance when I stumbled on a word I hadn’t really thought much about before: Menopause.
Oh. Ohhhhhh.
Suddenly, everything clicked. That breathlessness, the random mood swings, the unexplained tiredness. I wasn’t going crazy—I was just perimenopausal. That lovely phase where your body decides to remind you it’s been around for a while, and things are about to get a whole lot more… interesting. Why hadn’t anyone told me about this? Why didn’t my doctor, in all his wisdom, ask about my cycles instead of sending me off to yoga class with a prescription? Why was this such a mystery when half the population goes through it?
The next day, I called my older sister. Surely she would know something, right? Well, turns out she didn’t either. She’s 47, going through the same thing, and equally clueless. So, naturally, she asked our mother. And her response?
“Oh that? That’s when women go a little crazy for a while, get hot flashes, then it’s all over when the periods stop. Don’t let the doctors give you any medication though—you’ll end up with cancer. Just take some vitamins.”
Well, that was helpful.
So my sister and I finally found a specialist—a menopause guru, if you will—who actually understood what was happening to our bodies. And let me tell you, the myths? The complete lack of useful information? It’s absurd! Half the population goes through this, but no one talks about it, like it’s some kind of top-secret club you only get invited to once your hormones start throwing a tantrum.
Honestly, if men had to deal with this, they’d probably get a lifetime supply of spa vouchers and a government-issued guidebook called So, You’re About to Go Through Some Hormonal Fluctuations. But us? We get vague advice about “breathing deeply” and a handful of vitamins. Fantastic.
My take away from all this is, if you’re in your 40s, waking up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat, googling symptoms like you’re cramming for a medical exam, do yourself a favour. The next time your doctor shrugs and says, “Huh, that’s strange,” just drop the word menopause into the conversation. Watch their eyes widen as they realise you’ve cracked the code. And if they don’t take you seriously? Well, that’s your cue to take a deep breath, hold it for four counts, and then slowly exhale… as you walk out the door to find someone who actually knows what’s going on.
Because honestly, you deserve more than a pink yoga mat and some chamomile tea.
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