Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter. So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous, I’d be a millionaire. A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you, for every professional who let you slip through the cracks, for every moment when the full information, the full picture, the full respect wasn’t given. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Today is for you, Molly. And for the future generations of our family — because this is genetic, because this is inherited, because someone needs to notice and someone needs to ask the right questions. I have become, by necessity, a hormonal expert. A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach. And through it all, your husband — your rock — has moved mountains beside you, carrying what others refused to see, loving you through every unseen storm. I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off. Because if people could see it, they’d care. Docto...

“The Hormonal Blueprint We Should Have Been Born With” Today my brain went somewhere big — somewhere future‑world, somewhere “why doesn’t this already exist?”   I started thinking about how different life would be if women had a hormonal blueprint.   A literal map. A readable code. A monthly DNA‑style printout that shows where we are in our cycle — peaks, troughs, luteal dips, follicular clarity, ovulation chaos, PMT storms — all of it. Imagine if every woman came with a hormonal readout the way men come with testosterone as a baseline.   Not a barcode on the wrist, not a QR code, but something that tells the world — and more importantly, *us* — exactly where we are hormonally at any given moment. Because hormones change everything.   Decision‑making. Mood. Logic. Risk. Sensory load.   And yet we’re expected to behave like a flat line. I was watching that documentary today — the one about the girl who got 12 years.   Phenomenal...

  Sucked In “Today’s Menopausal Madness” (19th May 2026) Today was one of those menopausal‑ND chaos days where everything I touched seemed to unravel in my hands. It started at the chemist. I queued for my prescriptions, juggling three different items, using my HRT exemption card, and somehow still managed to pay £30. I walked out thinking I’d done everything right — until I got halfway to the garage to collect a parcel that, as usual, “wasn’t there.” They never know where anything is, and I don’t even know how I end up with so many parcels, but it’s the same every time. On the walk home, it hit me: Why have I paid £30 when I’m exempt? And actually, all three should be exempt because I have to have all three — I’m progesterone‑intolerant, I can’t have standard HRT, and my whole system is a hormonal circus. Then the realisation: The £22 HRT exemption only covers… HRT. And only one of the three things I need even falls under that. The shock factor here is I can't take regular H...

  To Wax or Not to Wax — That Was the Bloody Question Picture it. I’m already super poorly. I don’t have a science degree. I can’t even say sinusitis properly. I didn’t know I had a neck ache until it was too late. And it’s Vegas. The massage felt like the man had just finished on the slot machines and wandered over to give me a rub‑down. The head massage was… something. He drenched my hair in oil, scrubbed my scalp like he was trying to win a prize, and when I looked in the mirror I looked like I’d stepped straight out of the late 1980s — perm, hot oil, the lot. Then came the waxing. When I say I was unprepared, I mean UNPREPARED. No one tells you that being waxed when you’re already unwell is a terrible idea. No one tells you that being waxed when you’re neurodivergent and menopausal is basically a sensory assault course. She pulls the first strip. “Oh my God, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Second strip. “No, seriously, you’ve GOT to be kidding me.” By the third, I’m done. I tell...

  THE BIKINI BOTTOM BETRAYAL (The Itsy Bitsy Teeny Bikini Bottoms Incident) When you go on holiday in your menopausal era, packing becomes a whole personality test. In my case packing paralysis - Stress, You think you’ve been sensible. You think you’ve chosen the bikini bottoms appropriate for a 50‑year‑old woman who is about to spend a weekend in water rapids with fifteen friends at a wedding party. Not a romantic getaway, Itsy‑Bitsy‑Bikini style. Not a private sun‑lounger moment. A group activity situation. And I’m not saying I shouldn’t wear a tiny pant — I absolutely can — but sometimes you want a bit of coverage. Not for shame. For practicality. For movement. For the reassurance that a buttock isn’t going to make a surprise appearance mid‑splash. So I packed the bikini. (Big mistake: I didn’t take it out of the delivery packaging.) Third bikini in this style. I packed the bottoms. I thought I packed the bigger pair — and by “bigger” I don’t mean Bridget Jones. I mean “slight ...

  The bent coat hanger this was the crooked‑but‑capable functioning‑through‑fog metaphor. BLOG POST 3 —  THE DAY I FELT USELESS AND DID EVERYTHING ANYWAY Today I didn’t feel good. Not physically, not mentally, not energetically. I felt like a puppet with half its strings missing and the other half tangled. I felt like a woman who had slept too much and somehow not enough. But here’s the strange thing: I still did everything. I answered my messages. I made it to the first thing, even if I was late. I talked to my son. I talked to my daughter. I met a friend. I ate breakfast. I had conversations I didn’t think I had the brain for. I brushed a horse. I lived a whole day while feeling like a malfunctioning marionette. And it made me realise something I’ve never had time to realise before: Feeling is hard. Feeling is new. Feeling is something I used to outrun by being busy, by being early, by being prepared, by being everything to everyone. Now I’m slowing down. Now I’m letting...

  BLOG POST 2 — RED LIGHT, RED LIGHT, RED LIGHT I woke up late. Not “a bit late”. Late‑late. The kind of late where the world has already started without you and you’re still in the prologue. I missed my antibiotics. My ears were doing their underwater symphony. And every single traffic light turned red. Every. Single. One. It felt like the universe was saying, “Stop.” And I was saying, “I can’t, I’ve got plans.” And the universe was saying, “No, really, stop.” And I was saying, “I’ve got micro‑plans, actually, and they’re manageable.” And the universe was saying, “Red light.” And I was saying, “I hear you but I’m still going.” I used to be early for everything. I built systems around my lateness before I even knew it was AU-DHD. I padded time. I over‑prepared. I left margins. I lived in a constant state of readiness because I didn’t trust my brain. Then I got diagnosed. And I softened. And I let myself be human. And now I’m late. Not because I don’t care — but because my brain is ...

(overfilled, too‑warm, too‑much body metaphor)   BLOG POST 1 —  THE NIGHT I SLEPT TWICE MY LIFE I’ve never been a sleeper. Not in childhood, not in motherhood, not in menopause, not in neurodivergence. I always thought it was hypervigilance, or personality, or “just me”. I didn’t know it was ADHD and autism until fifty, and suddenly the whole pattern of my life made sense — the nights, the pacing, the half‑sleep, the wired‑tired body that never shuts down, my youth where it past sleepless, when i could manage on endorphins and love alone. Then I travelled long‑haul and got sick. Proper sick. Sinus, ears, antibiotics, the whole thing. And because I wasn’t in my house — my safe place, my routines, my sensory control — I didn’t care for myself the way I do at home. There really is no place like home, especially when your body is a system you have to manually operate. The first night back, I slept. I thought it was jet lag. I thought it was the four hours I somehow got on the plan...

  Travel book – Joan Didion Style (Manifesting publishing a great book idea?) ND Menopause Home Logic Travel Dysregulation Diaries Body Limits & Boundaries Self Care Aftermath Notes The Woman I Am Now

WHEN I GROW UP  I USED A LIBERTY BOX TO CREATE MY LITERAL GALLERY AND THEN COPILOT AI TO PUT IT INTO PRACTICE.   THE CANVAS WOULD BE HUGE POST IT STYLE BOARDS WITH FLORAL LETTERS WRITTEN USING OLD GRAVE STONE FLOWERS THE FORGOTTEN FADED OLD TYPE.

  Boundaries Realising you cannot always carry yourself — no matter how hard you try And now that the scale has tipped — now that it’s me who needs help — I feel the imbalance more than ever. I’ve spent years being the strong one, the steady one, the one who carried the weight. And now, when I finally need someone to hold even a corner of mine, there’s no space for it. So my boundaries need to be locked solid. I can carry myself — I’ve done it since childhood — and it’s the thing that has always worked. Only you can truly look after yourself. Love yourself. I was doing well with that, holding my own weight, keeping my balance. But in this environment, with old patterns pressing in, my scales tipped again.

  There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.  I thought I was over this. I thought I was in a much better place. But I realise now that with menopause, the coping mechanisms I’ve built at home don’t travel with me — not in the same way, not with a neurodivergent brain. Everything I’d put into place fell apart because I was trying to care for myself and keep up with Rich, and celebrate, and have fun with so many lovely people. And many of the women there were around menopausal age — younger, older, some possibly on HRT — and I’m not. So of course I couldn’t keep up. HRT isn’t a wonder drug, but it helps your body function and heal better. I was trying to run at their pace with a body that’s doing something completely different. With my sleep being what it is, the time difference hit me hard. My safe space is home, and I didn’t realise just how much that matters. When I’m home, I know exactly what I need. When I’m away, I forget. I try...

what I wanted ....... Powerful ,  playful ,  rebellious ,  ethereal ,  editorial. “This really made me laugh, as the setup is just like one of those older women’s magazines — Woman’s Own , doctor’s‑waiting‑room style. I’m not knocking that style, but it wouldn’t be me, and I asked for Vogue style. The pink dress, credited to Bridgerton , ended up making me look about 80 years old (future me) — or like the Dowager from Downton Abbey .” what I wanted ....... Powerful , playful , rebellious , ethereal , editorial.  

The Dentist Chair - Feelings  When it feels like my bones are being scraped, When my skull is being rocked, When my teeth are being jolted —