September is synonymous with transition. Parents everywhere scramble to rouse and prep their babes—from infants to teenagers—with each phase presenting its own special brand of struggle. School buses hush and squeak their way through morning routes. The weather cools. Football is underway. And the world around us begins its annual transformation from bathing suits to hoodies.

Personally, this glorious perimenopausal body appreciates the coverage. Oh, you don’t know much about the womanly transition known as perimenopause? Excellent. Come sit down. I have a captivating story to tell you.

Once upon a time, a 52-year-old woman named Sandy awoke with a start at 3 am. Her heart was racing, her brow was damp, and she was suddenly very, very hot. It must have been the gyro I had for dinner, she thought. The next night, at 4 am, it happened again. This time, the sheets were wrapped around her body as if she had slain a dragon. Ripping off her top, she sat upright, chugged water from the bedside table, and cranked on the ceiling fan. After enough of these unsettling middle-of-the-night episodes, the young lass did what any reasonable woman in the 21st century would do: She Googled it.

“Eventually, the 52-year-old realized there was no outrunning this particular rite of passage.”

Sandy knew perimenopause was coming. She just hadn’t quite put all the pieces together and was secretly hoping she might be one of the lucky 15 percent of women without symptoms. Apparently, she had not won that particular lottery. Google, along with several well-meaning friends who had quietly walked this raucous path before her, essentially told her to buckle up.

And then came the belly.

The belly she had been successfully disguising for years, with strategically placed, properly lain T-shirts, had apparently decided it was time to come out of hiding. It joined forces with errant hairs in strange places, some lethargy, brain fog, and emotions that could go from “I am a calm and reasonable adult” to “WHY IS EVERYONE BREATHING SO LOUDLY?” in approximately 4.7 seconds. All signs pointed to one thing: perimenopause.

As Sandy began diving down the rabbit hole of perimenopausal information, the overwhelm was immediate. Her Instagram feed, once filled with puppies, inspirational quotes, and humorous teaching reels, suddenly became a digital menopause convention.

Cooling pajamas.

Estrogen supplements.

Makeup for “aging eyes.”

Piddle panties.

Pills promising to stop the dreaded middle-aged weight gain.

And the influencers. Oh, the influencers. They looked way older than Sandy felt; she began to resent them. Not because they were doing anything wrong, exactly, but because she was not ready to identify with them. She was spry! Vibrant! Still capable of staying up past 9 pm if properly caffeinated.

Eventually, the 52-year-old realized there was no outrunning this particular rite of passage. It was either spend the next several years fighting and complaining about the woes of “the changes” or, like most transitions in life we have no control over, accept it. Nay, she declared, she would EMBRACE it!

So, Sandy made friends with her lower pooch, which had developed a personality and apparently intended to stick around. She visited her gynecologist and learned more about the chemical upheaval happening in her body. She talked with friends who had already traveled this particular road and discovered that nearly everyone had a story but rarely spoke about it.

She wondered why something that happens to roughly half the population is treated like an embarrassing malfunction. Why are the nagging symptoms of “the great pause” whispered about at lunches? Perhaps because society has conditioned us to associate aging with disappearing?

Menopause is the biological announcement that you’re getting older, and our culture isn’t particularly comfortable with women getting older. We’re supposed to age gracefully. Preferably while remaining attractive, energetic, wrinkle-free, emotionally stable, sexually interesting, professionally relevant, and capable of locating our keys. And if we could do all of that without sweating through our pajamas, even better!

Perimenopause isn’t the beginning of the end; it’s simply another transition. We enter a new season of our bodies whether we’re ready or not. Maybe we should talk about it, not only to each other, but to our sons, fathers, brothers, uncles. Loudly. Without shame. Without euphemisms. Without pretending we’re “fine” while standing in front of an open freezer at 2 am.

I’m not saying I’m thrilled about every aspect of this new chapter. I still occasionally stare at my body as though it belongs to someone who has left the building. But I’m learning to laugh at it. To listen to it. To accept the changes rather than treating them like a personal betrayal.

And if a hoodie happens to make the whole process a little more comfortable? Well… Bless September. I’m ready for fall.