The Morning I Wept Over Burnt Toast—And Why It Matters More Than You Think

On losing and finding yourself in perimenopause

9:07 a.m.

That’s when it happened.

I stood in my kitchen, tears streaming down my face, staring at a piece of burnt sourdough toast.

The smell was awful. My dog was staring at me with that look. You know the one. “What is happening right now?” look.

“Mom?” My teenager yelled from upstairs. “Are you okay or...?”

I wanted to answer. I really did. But honestly? I had no idea.

Was I okay? Not okay? Angry? Sad? Having some kind of existential crisis over carbs?

All I knew was my shirt, which was totally fine when I put it on, now felt like it was strangling me. And that leaf blower three houses down? It might as well have been screaming directly into my ear.

Over toast.

Burnt. Toast.

This was my life now.

Nobody warns you about this part

This is what no one tells you about perimenopause.

It doesn’t knock politely and wait for permission. It barges through your door wearing flip-flops and a bathrobe at noon, rearranging your furniture without asking.

You’re in the middle of a work meeting when heat floods your body.

You blank on your accountant’s name. The guy whose done your taxes for the past 8 years.

Then you blank on your kid’s name. Just for a second, but long enough to feel like you’re losing your mind.

And under all the hot flashes and brain fog, there’s this other thing. This quiet, persistent sadness that just sits there.

It’s grief. But the sneaky kind. The kind that doesn’t announce itself.

The goodbyes nobody talks about

This isn’t just about your body changing. It’s bigger than that.

You walk into a room and feel invisible. Not ignored, invisible. Because you are one of the oldest in the room.

You catch your reflection and think, “Who is that?” Not because you look bad, but because you look different. Like a slightly off version of yourself.

Things ache. Not just your knees. But deeper things. The part of you that used to dream big. That used to feel excited about stuff. That used to feel seen.

There are losses that nobody talks about.

• Your last period (and feeling weirdly sad about it, even though you hated every single one).

• The last time some random guy bothered you on the street (and feeling guilty that you kind of miss being noticed at all).

• The last time anyone called you “girl” instead of “ma’am.”

It’s a bunch of tiny endings. No one brings casseroles. No one sends cards.

Just you, alone in your kitchen, ugly-crying over toast.

What happens when you pretend everything’s fine

You can ignore this stuff. Push it down. Power through. Lots of women do.

But here’s what that actually looks like:

• You stop laughing at social events. Not because you want to, but because you’re too tired to fake it.

• That book you always wanted to write? Still in your head, collecting dust.

• Your kid needs you present, really present, but you’re giving her the AutoPilot Mom version instead.

This isn’t just hormones being annoying. It’s your whole sense of self getting scrambled.

If you don’t tend to it, it shrinks. It fades. You become background noise in your own life.

But what if you actually give yourself permission to deal with it? To feel it, sit with it, work through it?

It transforms into something else entirely.

Not the “old you.” Something different. Messier. More real.

Start small, start messy, just start

The thing about change is it never looks like what you expect. It can’t. That’s literally how it works.

So start simple.

Get messy. Let yourself feel the sad stuff. Really feel it. Cry over the stupid toast if you need to.

And then while you’re still feeling all of it, do something small anyway.

Plant something. Write one page. Take one walk. Make one phone call.

Even if it feels pointless today.

Even if you’re tired and nothing’s working and everything feels hard.

Even if the only thing you’re feeling right now is pure, unfiltered rage.

That counts too.

Rage is energy. It’s fuel. It’s proof you still care enough to be pissed off about something.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to fix everything at once.

You just have to show up. For yourself. One burnt piece of toast at a time.

Because you’re not falling apart.

You’re becoming someone new.

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Let’s start a conversation. What’s the one thing you wish someone had told you about perimenopause?