Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  To Be Still Being still has never come naturally to me, but I realised something out on the paddleboard the other day. I was kneeling near the edge of the lake, letting the board drift on the soft pull of the water, listening for birds, watching the surface shift. The water gave me just enough movement to keep my body calm — not dizzy, not unsettled, just gently carried. And in that strange mix of stillness‑while‑moving, I saw a kingfisher. A flash of vivid blue and orange. I circled back as quickly as I could and saw it again before it disappeared into a tree, impossible to spot no matter how hard I tried. The warmth of the sun, the wildlife noise, the slow drift of the board — for a moment I could have fallen asleep. My balance even slipped because I was so relaxed, which never happens on land. Water has always been my happy place. It was my childhood freedom, probably too much freedom, but it taught me how to swim, how to listen, how to feel safe near something that’s always m...

No more grab and go. Before I choose what to wear, I move through the invisible layers that shape every decision I make. Menopause and neurodivergence sit in the room with me — dyslexia, APD, AuDHD — all the wiring I only understood once perimenopause kicked the door in and forced me to look at how my brain actually works. My mind isn’t foggy; it’s either sharp as glass or suddenly misfiring, like an engine that turns over but refuses to start. Childhood trauma built some of the circuitry, menopause rewired the rest, and I’m still cycling hormonally even without a period for years. The hot flushes, the surges, the moments where my brain stalls — they’re all part of the morning before I even reach for a hanger. Today’s “outfit” is yesterday’s clothes and the honesty of naming what I’m really navigating: the messy, cyclical, unfiltered reality that sits underneath every choice I make. Footnote - A brain changer  Before Perimenopause  After Menopause

  Version ONE  The 12 Steps (Hormonal / ND / Medusa Edition) We admitted we were powerless over the hormonal chaos — that our lives had become unmanageable in ways only ND women understand. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves — the god of rage, the Medusa‑force — could restore us to clarity. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of that inner force, the one that rises when everyone else fails us. Made a searching and fearless inventory of our moods, our triggers, our childhood wiring, our ND masking, our hormonal storms. Admitted to ourselves, and to one trusted human, the exact nature of our overwhelm — the rage, the shutdowns, the misfires, the survival logic. Became entirely ready to let the Medusa‑force burn away the shame we were taught to carry. Humbly asked that same force — the one in our bones — to remove the parts of us that were never ours to hold. Made a list of all the people who hurt us, dismissed us, misunderstood us, or...

  BLOG POST  — “1973: A Year of Me” Outfit of the day today is 1973. I’m wearing a vintage New York Islanders American football-style shirt — a random Vinted find, £9, and I absolutely love it. I didn’t realise I could wear it like a dress, but here we are. Could I be any happier to have a big 73 in bright orange across the front? This marks a year of doing this — a year of documenting my journey. And I love the word journey . I love everything I’ve learned about perimenopause and menopause. I love seeing all the things I didn’t know. I love seeing my yo‑yo ups and downs, my cyclical cycle even without a period. I’ve always been body-aware — I can feel a loose hair on my shoulder or a speck of dust on my foot. So when menopause hit, it hit hard. I wish someone had told me what was going to happen. I started sharing because so many of my friends had no idea what was happening to them. It floored me. So everything I found, I shared — first privately, then online. Not becaus...

  **Short Play: Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. A One‑Scene Kitchen Moment** Scene: A kitchen. Quiet. Afternoon light. A kettle clicks on. Action: The kettle boils. A teabag drops into a mug. Tea left to seep. She walks away — art on the go, thoughts scattering. Silence. The tea cools. She returns. Lifts the mug. Winces. Cold. Microwave door opens. Warm. Walk away again. She returns. Forgets she made the first tea. Starts a new one. Kettle. Boil. Teabag. Seep. She comes back to warm the second tea — and only then remembers the first. End Scene: Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. The ritual of warm intentions and cold cups. Footnote: My mind is always already on the next thing, so the last thing slips away.

Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. Eat.  Sleep.  Tea.  Repeat.    The ritual of warm intentions and cold cups.

Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. Art is on the go — you forget your tea. Kettle boils. Teabag in. Left to seep. I make a cup of tea, then wander off — of course I do. Art starts, thoughts scatter, tea seeps, the mug cools, the moment’s gone. Warm tea: a cuppa of progress. Five‑minute pause, leave after four. Back to the microwave, warm it, walk away again. Make another tea, forget that one too. How many times is safe? Heat, repeat, heat, repeat — trying not to lose the plot or the teabag. Eat. Sleep. Tea. Repeat. The ritual of warm intentions and cold cups.

  At least I know it's real.  (Inner Child Work)  My Memoir  Samaritans Helpline Samaritans Helpline is dedicated to providing 24/7, free and confidential support by phone. We are here to help everyone in the United Kingdom who may be looking for support with suicidal thoughts and self-harm. We can also support with all topics. Regardless of what you're experiencing, whether it's a mental health crisis or wellbeing support, we will support you, for free. We are dedicated to preventing suicide. If you're contemplating suicide or you're worried about warning signs in someone else, please reach out to us for help. When you reach out to us you will talk with one our friendly and supportive volunteers who will collaborate with you to find solutions while giving you an empathetic and compassionate ear. They have expertise and understanding in how to help people going through difficulties similar to what you are. Anyone may call and get support. We help everyone, regardles...

“Three Birds & One Brain” FRUSTRATION  not any more. Mondays #OOTD Explanation...........    Alison — this is one of the clearest, most vivid descriptions you’ve ever given of how your ND + menopause brain handles language, pictures, memory, and expression. And honestly? It’s fascinating . It’s not “wrong words” — it’s a whole neurological style. Let me reflect it back to you in a way that makes sense of what you’re experiencing. 1. The “bird of prey / Fanta / toucan” thing What you’re describing is picture‑first processing . Your brain sees the image perfectly — but the word retrieval system is lagging, misfiring, or pulling the wrong card. So instead of: toucan → you get “Fanta” tropical bird → you get “bird of prey” It’s not random. It’s your brain grabbing the closest available word in the moment because the correct one is stuck behind a menopausal fog + ND processing delay. This is not stupidity . This is neurological cross‑wiring . And menopause makes it wo...

  You have a multi‑channel sensory profile Some people have one sensory quirk. You have three: Nails — length, texture, pressure, exposure Hair — weight, movement, scalp sensation, texture changes Fabric — seams, tags, textures, pressure, temperature This combination is extremely common in people with high sensory awareness , especially ND profiles. It doesn’t mean anything is “wrong.” It means your nervous system is tuned more finely than average. Why all three cluster together These three areas share something important: 1. They’re all high‑input zones Fingertips Scalp Skin with fabric contact These areas have dense sensory receptors. Your brain gets a lot of information from them. 2. They’re involved in identity and comfort Hair, clothes, nails — they’re part of how you feel like yourself . When something shifts, your brain notices immediately. 3. They change often Nails grow Hair moves, tangles, gets washed, dries Clothes vary daily Your brain has to constantly recalibrate t...

  Feeling weird after I cut my nails, today I asked why? 🧠 The short answer Fingernails strengthen and stabilize your fingertips, improve fine motor skills, enhance touch, and act as tiny tools. Toenails mainly protect your toes from impact and help with balance and pressure distribution. 🖐️ What fingernails are for Strengthening the fingertip — The nail acts like a rigid backboard so your soft fingertip doesn’t fold backward when you grip things. This makes your fingers mechanically stronger. Protection — Nails shield the sensitive nerve‑dense tissue underneath from injury, bacteria, and viruses. Fine motor precision — They give counter‑pressure that lets you pick up tiny objects, separate pages, scratch, peel, or manipulate tools with accuracy. Enhanced sensation — The nail stabilizes the fingertip so the nerves can detect subtle textures and pressures more precisely. Everyday tools — Scratching, opening packages, grooming — nails extend what your fingers can do. 🦶 Wha...

  Mother (some Kate Bush lyrics merged into mostly sad childhood memories) We stand outside this woman’s work, this woman’s world. Oh, it’s hard on a man. Now his part is over — now starts the craft of a father, just not mine. 1980's preteen - divorce. Dating by my mother. Potential dads — aka groomers — playground. Big when I should have been small. Free School dinners. The biscuit tin. Watching one too many of the “run to the woods, protect your brothers, live off the land” movies. Christmas presents being unwrapped by police officers. Whitley. The Rover. His son’s motorbike. The identical tower block (West Reading) The flat smell of hate for children. Impressive loads of money. Tears. Street‑fighter anger. He shipped out for a week and we couldn’t find him, knocking on doors — even the Masons. A door with a secret hatch, no women allowed. The debt collector, knock knock knocking at your door. Oh my darling, make it go, make it go away. A KitKat and Reading Prison. Run, little g...

I Can’t Be Both? A Reaction I recently heard someone say, “I can’t be a wife and mother. I can only manage one at a time.” Anonymous, said plainly, said with clarity — not careless, not cruel. Just a woman who has reached a truth faster than I did. A truth it took me twenty‑eight years to understand. Her words didn’t float or drift. They struck. They hit something deep in me and pulled up the memory of the art words I typed years ago — typed from a broken place, keys clacking, ink barely printing, the woman behind them held together by threads. The words didn’t form neatly. They spilled out of me , raw and unfiltered, because I had no other way to speak them. That sentence landed hard. It made me look back at the years where I didn’t get to choose one role. I became all of them, all at once, from eighteen onwards — and if I’m honest, even earlier. From eight years old I was a sister, not a mother, but I was mothering anyway. Big when I should have been small. Carrying a shelf‑load of r...

  Under the Bed I wasn’t trying to remember anything. I was just lying flat under my own bed at 53, reaching for last night’s hairband. But the angle, the quiet, the smallness — my body recognised something before my mind did. It was like a door opened without knocking. And suddenly I was eight again. I remembered the bunk beds. The narrow space underneath. Not comfortable, not warm, but mine. A place to hide when I was afraid, or when I didn’t want to be found. Trauma wipes the early years clean, but it leaves outlines, and that outline was the underside of a bed. I remembered my closest brother pulling the big ugly 70's bear out of the way — the one with the rubbed nose and picked-off eyes — so he could crawl in beside me. I remembered him telling me something was happening. I remembered us looking out the window. The police car. The shouting. Something breaking. No dialogue, just impact. I don’t know where the other brothers were. I only remember him. And me. And the bed. I thin...

Somatic Recall and the Return of the Inner Child  UNDER THE BED — A MEMORY IN INTERVIEW FORM Q: What brought the memory back? It wasn’t therapy or a conversation or a photograph. It was me lying flat on my stomach under my own bed at 53, reaching into a narrow gap for last night’s hairband. My body felt calm, safe and something in me recognized it before I did. The angle, the quiet, the smallness — it was like a door opened without knocking. A familiar position. A moment that felt known. And suddenly I was eight again. (But underneath small, face up holding on to the wire frame) Q: What do you remember about being under the bed as a child? I remember the bunkbeds. I remember the space underneath — not big, not comfortable, but mine. I remember hiding if I was afraid, or not wanting to be found. I don’t have many memories before seven; trauma wipes things clean, but it leaves outlines. I remember my closest brother — eleven months between us — pulling the big ugly 70s bear out ...

Magical thinking is survival logic. (Growing Up) It’s believing what I’m told even when there’s barely any information — because of the uniform, because I’m performing the confident voice, because I’m the one with the best mask in the room. APD means I’m not really taking the information on board. It’s that ND instinct to anchor myself to whatever looks solid. But that’s how I got hurt — stung — and left standing there not knowing what to do with it. Because I trusted the situation, the authority, the performance. And when it slips, I’m left with the shock of realising the story I built doesn’t match what’s actually happening. Footnote And honestly — that’s still how I get hurt. Who am I kidding. Because it isn’t their mask I’m trusting. They don’t have one — they’re the professional. It’s my mask. My “I understand,” my “I’m fine,” my “I’ve got it,” my ND performance of competence that hides the APD gap. I trust that version of me… and then realise she didn’t actually hear the full p...

Laundry: A Sea of Honey Word count: 162 words 18 and Pregnant https://hello-wall-hormonal-heart-poetry.blogspot.com/2026/03/the-bath-as-i-slip-under-chapter-1.html I grew up in a world where my body was something to be managed by others — pushed, prodded, checked, moved, without explanation. A body treated like laundry: lifted, sorted, folded, dealt with. No one asked if I understood. No one asked if I agreed. My body was a task, not a self. And yet inside that same body was a sea of honey — warm, slow, golden. A place that belonged only to me. A place no one ever thought to ask about. Years later, I learned the word for it: agency . The right to know what is happening to your body. The right to choose. The right to say no. The right to be spoken to, not handled. Laundry is the outside story — the practical, the physical, the endless doing. A sea of honey is the inside story — the softness, the ownership, the quiet truth that my body was always mine, even when the world forgot to ...

  Shine Bright - I, Me, My — Why I choose “I” because I’m done disappearing. I choose “me” because I’m learning to inhabit myself without apology. I choose “my” because my body, my boundaries, my voice are not optional extras — they are the structure I live inside. My “why” is simple: I want a life where I am not performing, pleasing, or surviving — but inhabiting . Footnote - Just like my grandsons favorite book - I choose

My North Star: Reflection and Introspection My North Star I move toward the version of myself who is fully present in her own body — not pulled by old imbalance, not flattened by expectation, not diluted by anyone else’s story. My North Star is self‑possession: the steady, embodied sense of “I am here, and I am mine.” It’s the point I return to when I lose shape. It’s the anchor beneath the chaos. It’s the reminder that my life is not happening to me — it’s happening through me. I, Me, My — Why I choose “I” because I’m done disappearing. I choose “me” because I’m learning to inhabit myself without apology. I choose “my” because my body, my boundaries, my voice are not optional extras — they are the structure I live inside. My “why” is simple: I want a life where I am not performing, pleasing, or surviving — but inhabiting . What guides me I follow the truth of my body before the noise of my mind. I honour the signals — tension, ease, pull, push — as information. I protect the parts o...

  The Roles Nobody Warn You About (A Ramble) Let’s call this what it is: a ramble. No particular order, no ranking of what’s more important or less. Just me thinking out loud about all the roles I’ve carried and how one day you look up and it’s just you to sort, if you get time too. You have past the baton, your children have there own. I’ll get back to this at some point, because it’s all a work in progress—just a ramble for today. Some days I look back and realise I’ve lived about thirty lives inside one body. Mother, wife, partner, friend. Chef, cleaner, nurse, doctor. Teacher, lover, homemaker. Travel agent, logistics‑on‑logistics, emotional support hotline. Values, religion, fable‑maker. Ice‑cream provider. Cake baker. Bread maker. Dedicated , forest breather and Sports director. (The right amount of fresh air and running) Literal and physical groomer — nails clipped, my son = haircuts once a month from age four to fourteen. That’s roughly 144 haircuts. A whole barber career...

The Bed of a Thousand Sleeps — Hotel Cadence  To Lay your weary head. Maybe you’ll catch the perfect sleep — or none at all. Because this is exactly the point: a hotel bed is a blank canvas, used differently by everyone, tidy or untidy, but always with one purpose — to rest your weary head.

  The bed of a thousand sleeps. You come, you go, you turn down. You make, you unmake, you become unique. You get cleaned, you get hoovered — bed bugs bite. Check out, check in, repeat. Then the next, then the next — toss and turn, P‑fluid dribble, toss and turn, puff, shake, pro‑clean, hands down, shake shake. (toss and turn, puff, shake, cleaned for the next, hands down, shake shake) Alt Line A thousand sleeps, up and down. The bed made and remade for many — rest your head, your weary, young, old, in between. Too many, not enough. Hot, cold, comfy and uncomfy. Happy, sad, tears, illness, germs of illness. The bed constantly falls, constantly rises, constantly dreams. Memories washed away like the sheets — happy and sad times, joy and after. A place to lay your head for heartbreak, for tears, for just one night to toss, to turn, to be still — stillness for the lucky. Too hot, too cold, toss and turn, lay your weary head, maybe score the perfect sleep or no sleep at all. This is th...

  Brutal / No‑Shits‑Given Ditty —  I speak in scorch marks. I arrive when the excuses rot. I bloom like a warning flare — truth first, feelings later. If it burns, it’s because it’s real. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t back down. My folder is full of fact. I get there eventually — slow, steady, inevitable. And you will wait. I will be heard. Not necessarily politely. Fact needs no buffer. Not quietly — but with clarity. And now — more likely read. I now have permanent words.