Every so often, a story from my own life says what no medical explanation can.
This one started on the bleachers of a Saturday doubleheader: sunscreen melting, hormones surging, emotions running bases faster than the kids on the field.
It became an essay in my upcoming book, I Hate Everyone: Confessions of a Perimenopausal Woman, a love letter (and a survival guide) for women navigating midlife, motherhood, and the hormonal chaos in between.
Here’s an excerpt.
I love baseball. I really do. But sometimes, in the heat of a Saturday doubleheader and a hormone spike, I lose myself. And sometimes, the coaches are jerks.
They say sports build character. I say they can unleash the worst instincts of otherwise reasonable parents, turn innocent children into mascots for generational ambition, and send perimenopausal women like me into a biochemical fugue armed with seedless cotton candy grapes and existential dread.
Let me paint the picture: I am sitting on metal bleachers, overheating in a sweatshirt that felt like a good idea this morning, watching my 13-year-old son strike out for the third time. He’s got shoulders now. A little muscle. Voice somewhere between angel and insurance adjuster. The bat’s almost as tall as I am. And his confidence is sliding off him like sweat-slick sunscreen.
And I—mature adult, licensed naturopathic doctor, feminist—am absolutely vibrating with fury.
Not at him. At the injustice. At the coach who keeps insulting the kids. At the ump who seems to have a vendetta against children. At the universe for not rewarding the three private lessons, two pep talks, and one deeply awkward motivational quote I texted that morning. (“Babe Ruth struck out more than he hit!”)
One of the other dads—who I actually like—once called me a “fancy hippie.” Because when he peeked in my purse, he found essential oil hand sanitizer, aspartame-free gum, and an extra estradiol patch.
Honestly? I wear that label like a badge of honor. I’m less about scoreboards and more about hydration, emotional regulation between innings, and maintaining psychic equilibrium in the face of weaponized lawn chairs and intergenerational projection.
I am desperately trying to raise an emotionally intelligent boy in a world that still worships toughness. A boy who can cry and apologize and say “I’m scared” without flinching. A boy who knows his worth isn’t measured in home runs—or emotional suppression.
I didn’t grow up with that model. And perimenopause? It’s been a crash course in emotional turbulence. Hormones rewired my nervous system, and I had to learn—fast—how to ride the wave instead of drowning in it. Regulating myself became the only way to teach him how to do the same. Especially when the coaches can’t model it, and the culture still confuses stoicism with strength.
And let me tell you, that is exhausting. If I were my own patient, I’d prescribe electrolytes, somatic therapy, and a bullpen of backup mothers.
He’s tall and has the physical aggression of a Viking on Red Bull, but he also says things like, “I didn’t want to hurt their feelings” when he pitches against his friend.
My heart breaks and swells in the same beat. Because yes, sweet boy. And also: swing the damn bat. Like, swing the bat when you’ve got two strikes and two outs.
Perimenopause, meanwhile, has dialed everything up to eleven. I’m not just watching baseball—I’m living a Greek tragedy in left field. Every error feels like a prophecy. Every strikeout a referendum. I’ve cried over batting averages. I’ve stress-cleaned because of pop flies. I’ve Googled “emotional regulation for preteens” at midnight with one hand in a family-size bag of chocolate chips.
It wasn’t just the strikeout. It was every time I felt like I’d failed to protect him from the ache of effort without reward. The game cracked something open—some primal mother-torch of protectiveness mixed with helplessness. That’s when the inner pressure spike hits.
I don’t want to watch him tough it out—I want to storm the dugout like a battle witch wearing war paint made of eye-black. I want to hex the coach’s clipboard and scream at the sky and cast a protection spell with sunflower seeds and tiger balm. I want to rewrite every rulebook that ever told boys to suck it up and moms to stay chill. I want to snatch the mic from the announcer and declare, “This child is sacred! This game is rigged! And I have had exactly enough of pretending otherwise.”
I want him to succeed. To feel proud. To come off that field with dirt on his pants and light in his eyes. And instead, he looks… crushed. In the car, he shrugs and says, “I don’t care.”
But I know he does. And I really care. Too much. My nervous system is calibrated to his mood—and lately, it reads somewhere between anxious hummingbird and sad Viking.
It’s not just baseball. It’s the illusion of control slipping through my fingers. It’s the echo of every time I felt unsupported, unseen, unchampioned—and my desperate, aching attempt to ensure my son never feels the same.
That’s the flare signal.
This heat isn’t just hormonal deprivation—it’s the internal alarm of a woman who’s held the weight of everyone else’s comfort for so long, she forgot she wasn’t supposed to carry it alone.
This isn’t about youth sports. This is about all the invisible labor—the emotional scaffolding, the late-night pep talks, the snacks and soul-holding—and the way no one sees it unless it collapses.
When I scream in my head about batting orders, I’m not only mad at the coach. I’m mad that I’m the one who does all the holding and no one thinks to hold me back.
That’s not petty.
That’s power looking for a place to land. That’s my body saying: You cannot martyr yourself into motherhood and expect to remain whole.
That’s the matriarch’s fury rising—not to scorch, but to insist on being seen.
Which, obviously, is not a burden he should carry.
So I breathe. I text my therapist. I say things like, “I love watching you play,” even when what I really want to say is, “DESTROY THEM.” I remind myself that failure is part of the assignment. That grace isn’t just for winning seasons. That today, the matriarch’s energy is best channeled into snuggles and shadow work.
Sometimes, when I need to recalibrate, I put on Lauryn Hill’s “To Zion.” I let her voice remind me that motherhood is holy, complicated, aching work. That choosing this tenderness over toughness is its own quiet rebellion. That this love, fierce and flawed, is my offering.
He’s not here to fix my past. And I’m not here to perfect his future.
I’m just the woman with too many opinions and not enough Gatorade, cheering wildly for a teenager who still lets me hug him after the game.
Even when he strikes out.
Even when I do, too.
If I Were My Own Patient…
If I were my own patient, sitting across from me after that doubleheader, here’s what I’d prescribe:
- Electrolytes before empathy. You can’t regulate your emotions if you’re dehydrated, undernourished, or running on caffeine and adrenaline. Water and minerals first. Feelings later.
- Breathe like you mean it. Box breathing (inhale for 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4) is free hormone therapy for your nervous system.
- Move the energy, don’t suppress it. A walk, a stretch, or a slow drive with the windows down can clear cortisol better than pretending you’re fine.
- Eat something green before you grab the chocolate chips. Blood sugar crashes magnify emotional ones.
- Remember: You’re allowed to have needs. That’s not selfish. It’s physiology. You can’t mother from an empty nervous system.
- Schedule your next hormone check. If your mood swings are turning into emotional earthquakes, it’s time to see what your estrogen, progesterone, and cortisol are up to.
If this hit home, share it with a sideline mom who carries the snacks and the soul of the team. And if you’re navigating perimenopause while parenting a teen, you’re my people—stick around.
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