There is a particular kind of grief that comes from slowly disappearing.

Not physically, but psychologically, emotionally, and relationally.

For many women, invisibility does not happen overnight. It happens gradually through years of messages, expectations, and roles that teach them to become smaller.

• Be agreeable.

• Don't be too ambitious.

• Don't be too emotional.

• Don't be too loud.

• Take care of everyone else first.

• Don't make people uncomfortable.

By the time many women reach midlife, they realize they have spent decades becoming exactly what everyone else needed them to be. They have been the caregivers, the supporters, the problem-solvers, the emotional anchors, and the ones who hold everything together. Somewhere along the way, many women stop asking, "What do I want? What do I believe? Who am I becoming?"

This is what I call The Invisible Woman Syndrome.

I am a big believer in and user of Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT). I love my estrogen patch so much!

In fact, I wish someone had introduced it to me during perimenopause.

During my prime days of perimenopause, I woke up in the recovery room after shoulder surgery, sat straight up on the gurney and yelled, “I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to get out of here. I need to make sandwiches.” To which my kind nurse, Mary (I was in Boston, so all the nurses were named Mary), said, “You aren’t getting up, you aren’t getting out of here and you AIN’T making nobody no sandwich.” 

My cortisol cup was overflowing. I had obligations. Responsibilities. I NEVER rested. 

Looking back, I am certain HRT would not have magically solved the difficult circumstances I was navigating. It wouldn't have erased stress, changed relationships, or removed the emotional weight I was carrying. But it could have offered my body meaningful support during one of the biggest physiological, psychological, emotional, and relational transitions of my life.

The unfortunate reality is that many women were never given that opportunity.

I don't pay much attention to my dreams.

Most mornings they disappear before my feet hit the ground. But every once in a while, a dream lingers. It follows me into my first cup of coffee, tapping me on the shoulder and refusing to be ignored.

This dream did exactly that.

I found myself driving an oversized SUV. It was comfortable. Familiar. Easy to drive. I felt capable behind the wheel.

Yet I spent the entire dream trying to park it.

Over and over again.

I wasn't crashing. I wasn't lost. I wasn't even anxious about driving. I simply could not seem to find the right place to stop. I wanted to park the car, get out, and move on with my day. I had somewhere to be. Things to do. A life waiting for me.

But something kept preventing me from settling into a parking spot.

As I reflected on the dream, another detail stood out.

There was a bright blue van nearby, a smaller European-style vehicle with an incredible turn radius. It could maneuver effortlessly. It seemed agile, adaptable, and capable of changing direction without getting stuck.

I turned 40 in 2008. (I see you doing the math!) The timing could not have been more interesting. The country was navigating the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression. Retirement accounts were shrinking, home values were falling, and the news cycle felt relentless. At the same time, I packed up my life and moved north to New England with five children in tow.

Suddenly, I was learning an entirely new culture. I had to understand a Boston accent (cue Dunkin'), figure out how to heat a home with oil and radiant heat, navigate private schools, public transportation, Nor'easters, and humidity that transformed my hair into a science experiment. Meanwhile, the local media seemed perpetually obsessed with Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen. I learned that people were fiercely loyal to the Red Sox, that weather was a legitimate conversation topic, and that "wicked" could describe just about anything. Most confusingly, I often couldn't tell whether someone was talking about their car keys or their khakis.

I had moved several times throughout my life and developed a simple rule: give yourself six months to settle in. But this move was different. There were external stressors everywhere. We lived in a neighborhood where sirens were common, and I watched my children closely. My days were spent racing between schools, activities, sports, and playdates while trying to help everyone establish a new sense of home. At the same time, internal stressors were building that I didn't yet understand: anxiety, hormonal shifts, disrupted sleep, and what I now suspect was the beginning of perimenopause.

I was unaware of the impact midlife would have on my body and, more specifically, my sleep.

Once I finally drifted off and knew the children were safely tucked into their beds, I began waking wide-eyed at 2:37 a.m., unaware that my body was changing and that sleep would remain as elusive as a Costco receipt when you actually need to return something.

Apparently, motherhood was not the final boss of exhaustion.

Midlife said, "Hold my chamomile tea."

The frustrating part is that for years many women blamed themselves. We thought maybe we weren't disciplined enough. Maybe we drank too much caffeine. Maybe we needed a better routine, less stress, more yoga, fewer screens, more magnesium, colder rooms, warmer socks, blackout curtains, white noise, meditation apps, breathing exercises, tart cherry juice, less wine, more wine... honestly, the list became exhausting in itself.

I knew sleep mattered, and I tried almost everything:
a glass of wine (or two), gummies, melatonin, magnesium, strict sleep schedules, calming tea, sleep meditations, avoiding screens, reading before bed.

Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes it absolutely did not.

And when it didn't, I became increasingly frustrated. I quietly wondered what was wrong with me that I couldn't seem to do this very basic human thing correctly anymore.

Sleep.

There is a moment many women experience in midlife that feels impossible to explain unless you've lived it yourself.

A quiet panic.
A heaviness.
A feeling that somehow life is... ending.

You look around and suddenly become aware of time in a way you never have before. Your body changes. Your children grow up. Your parents age. Your marriage may feel unfamiliar. Your career may no longer fit. You begin taking inventory of your life and asking questions you once avoided:

Is this all there is?
Did I become who I wanted to become?
Do I still have time?
What happens now?

For many women, midlife feels like standing at the edge of the unknown. And the unknown is terrifying.

We are confronted by aging, mortality, shifting identities, and the uncomfortable awareness that life is finite. We begin organizing paperwork, worrying about health, thinking about retirement, or feeling urgency around unfinished dreams. We become acutely aware that death will eventually knock on our door.

And yet, strangely, almost no one prepared us for this season.

We educate girls thoroughly about puberty. We prepare women extensively for childbirth and motherhood. Entire industries, bookshelves, and medical systems are devoted to those transitions.

But when it comes to midlife, menopause, and "the change," many women are handed silence.

Little information.
Little research.
Little guidance.
Little regard.

And if you have XX chromosomes, this transition will happen to you.