I never expected menopause to be the thing that brought me closer to my daughter. It didn’t just reshape my body—it transformed our relationship. She saw me at my most vulnerable, and instead of pulling away, she leaned in. That’s when everything changed.
My daughter and I have always been close. We talk every day, even if it’s just a quick check-in. And ever since she left for college, we’ve kept one small ritual: a bedtime text with the same phrase. It’s our way of saying: I’m here. I see you. I love you.
We also share our runs. Side by side, we jog for miles, taking it as an opportunity to vent and clear our minds. It was on these runs that our relationship deepened—but when menopause hit, I found myself pulling away, even from her.
I didn’t want to admit how much it hurt. I didn’t talk about it—not even to my daughter. But she noticed. She saw right through me. And instead of letting me shrink away, she showed up with quiet strength.
We started talking. Really talking. Not just about hair, but about hormones, aging, and how our bodies change in ways no one warns you about. How one day you feel strong and beautiful, and the next you’re looking in the mirror wondering who that woman is staring back at you.
She opened up about her own insecurities—learning to love her body, resisting the pressure to look perfect. And I found myself offering advice I wish someone had given me: that menopause doesn’t just change your hormones—it changes your sense of self. Somehow, through all of that, we met each other on new ground—not just as mother and daughter, but as two women learning how to be.
We found small ways to stay connected. We took our supplements at the same time, shared morning texts, and swapped recipes for hormone-friendly meals. Even when we weren’t running together, we’d cue up the same podcast on solo jogs—our version of a long-distance conversation.
Growing up, I didn’t have these conversations with my mother. She passed away when I was 30—before either of us could fully step into this phase of life. I never got to ask her the questions I now ask myself. That’s why I’m so grateful I get to do it differently with my daughter. We’re breaking the silence. We’re figuring it out together.
Menopause was hard. It challenged me in ways I didn’t expect—but it also relieved the pressure to be perfect. It made space for something more honest. And in that honesty, I found real joy—the kind that comes from being fully seen.
The most unexpected part? My daughter taught me something, instead of the other way around. She gave me the courage to stop hiding. To talk about hard things. She’ll always be my baby girl—but she’s also my equal. My mirror. My friend. We’re walking this path hand in hand. Learning as we go and holding space for each other, every step of the way.
