It’s Sunday morning.

That sacred illusion of calm.

I’ve done it all, breakfast prepared, the cat fed, the dog fed, and finally… finally… I made myself a proper cup of coffee.

Not just any coffee.

The coffee. The one I’ve been craving since Friday evening like a woman stranded in the desert fantasising about espresso instead of water.

I place everything neatly: food on the table, supplements lined up like obedient little soldiers guarding the food. I move with purpose. With grace. With the quiet confidence of a woman who has her life together.

I finish organizing.

And then I look for my coffee.

It’s not next to the food.

Not next to the supplements cupboard.

Not at the coffee machine.

Not on the kitchen counter.

Not… anywhere.

Now, this is not an isolated incident. This is a lifestyle. A personality trait. A neurological escape room I didn’t sign up for.

Perimenopause, they say gently. Hormones going wild, they whisper.

I call it:

“early-access Alzheimer’s, beta version.”

You walk into a room and forget why.

You ask a question, receive an answer, and five minutes later … gone, erased from your brain. Evaporated. Spiritually released into the universe.

But the coffee… the coffee was real. I remember every detail. The sound of the machine, the smell, the cup in my hand. I didn’t leave the kitchen. I know I didn’t leave the kitchen.

At this point, I engage my husband in what can only be described as a domestic crime investigation.

“Did you take my coffee?”

“Did I actually make a coffee?”

The audacity.

“Yes, I made it. I remember making it. I experienced it emotionally.”

We begin searching. Together. United. Confused.

We check the counter. The machine. The table.

I check the fridge, because at this stage, anything is possible. Maybe I’m refrigerating coffee now. Maybe I’m evolving.

Five minutes pass.

Five long, existential minutes.

And then…

There it is.

My coffee.

Hidden in plain sight, behind the fruit basket. Like it had something to hide. Like it knew what it did.

I retrieve it. Slightly colder. Still mine.

I sit down. 

And this, this right here, is a fragment of my life in perimenopause.

Some days I lose my coffee.

Some days I lose my train of thought mid-sentence.

But somehow, I’ve learned to lose things without losing myself.

Because in between the chaos, the forgotten thoughts, and the misplaced cups…

there’s still laughter, still warmth, still a quiet kind of joy that sits with me at the table.

And when I finally find my coffee,  slightly cold, but still mine,

I remember that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be deeply, deliciously good.

It’s 24:00, that magical hour when normal people are deep in the fog of dreams, either being chased by something symbolic or winning imaginary arguments they’ll never have in real life.

Not me.

At 22:00, I was a responsible adult. I brushed my teeth, dimmed the lights, whispered sweet promises of “tonight we sleep early,” and slid into bed like someone who has their life together.

At 22:07, my sausage dog decided we do not, in fact, have our life together.

She whined.

I ignored her.

She whined louder, with the emotional intensity of a full-blown opera performance.

So I got up. Quick pee break, I thought. In and out. Back to bed.

No.

Three times. THREE. TIMES.

At this point, I’m not sure if she has a bladder the size of a pea or if she’s just conducting some kind of psychological endurance experiment.

Now it’s midnight. I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

And yes, I could blame the dog. And I will, publicly. But privately… I know.

It’s the hormones.

Second month of trying progesterone. Round two. The sequel nobody asked for.

Progesterone, they said, will help you sleep.

Progesterone said: let’s try something new — mild chaos, anxiety…

Today was actually a full, productive, “look at me being an adult” kind of day. Doctor’s appointment early morning, PI planning during the day, commute to the office, even voted for the workers council like a responsible citizen.

I lived. I thrived. I functioned.

And now?

I lie here. Betrayed by biology.

Perimenopause is like a subscription box you never signed up for. Every month, a surprise. Will it be sleep? Anxiety? Random rage? A philosophical crisis at midnight?

Stay tuned.

So yes, tomorrow I’ll go back to the drawing board. Adjust the dose. Negotiate with my hormones like a tired diplomat.

And maybe lock my bedroom door so the dog can whine someplace else, revenge on the teenagers living under the same roof. Consider it character building.