If you’re navigating perimenopause, changing friendships, or a season where things feel stubborn and uncooperative, this one’s for you.
What follows is an excerpt from my upcoming book, I Hate Everyone: Confessions of a Perimenopausal Woman — a collection of stories about midlife, bodies, friendship, and the messy, often hilarious work of learning how to stay rooted when everything feels out of season.
Barefoot in the dirt, I keep learning the same lesson: growth isn’t always pretty, but it’s still growth.
The Garden That Wouldn’t Behave
Barefoot in the dirt, I crouch over my battered planter, fingers clenched tight around the stubborn roots of some particularly aggressive weed. The sky is pale and cool, but my mood is anything but peaceful. I yank and tug, imagining I’m solving something much bigger than garden maintenance—maybe I am.
This little garden has become my unofficial therapist, my slow-motion meditation, and sometimes, my battleground.
My newest addition, a cut flower garden, started with hope. My neighborhood friend and I planted our gardens on the same day—same seeds, same plans—but hers basked in generous sun, while mine was stuck in the shade, fighting for every ray. Not surprisingly, hers bloomed early and bright, a wild bouquet of cosmos and zinnias that could’ve starred in Martha Stewart’s Instagram feed. Meanwhile, my garden struggled to show up, shy and slow, barely offering a few hesitant sprouts.
Chaos, Commotion, and Cat Poop
Then came the chaos.
First, the cat decided my planter was the perfect litter box. If you’ve ever tried to grow anything in soil that smells vaguely of cat pee, you know it’s a losing battle. But I soldiered on.
Next, the ants arrived—an invading army, tiny but relentless. They swarmed my sunflowers like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Desperation set in. Armed with white vinegar and righteous fury, I launched a full-scale assault. I sprayed the sunflower leaves like a backyard vigilante, sure I was about to win. Instead, the leaves withered within seconds, the ants kept partying, and the sunflowers died a swift and humiliating death.
Meanwhile, my zinnias—those stubborn little survivors—refused to get enough sunlight. They stood there, moody and wilted, like they were having their own midlife crisis.
I couldn’t help but laugh. Or maybe it was a mix of laughter and tears. Because isn’t this just like perimenopause? You try to nurture, to grow, to bloom—and sometimes the best you can do is manage the chaos.
The Bouquets That Saved Me
My neighbor brought me bouquets—bright, confident bursts of color from her thriving patch—while I tended to my underdog plot, a reminder that growth isn’t always immediate, and sometimes it’s just about staying in the game.
But here’s the thing: even when your own patch feels like a mess, your friend’s flourishing garden—her blooms and bouquets—is a reminder that none of us grows in isolation. Female friendships are the sunshine and water we all need during this wild, hormonal wilderness. Those bouquets she brings? They’re not just flowers—they’re lifelines.
Underground Work Still Counts
Even when everything looks like a disaster—when the leaves are drooping, the bugs are winning, and the cat definitely owns your soil—something is still happening underneath. Roots are stretching. Systems adapting. Sometimes you just can’t see it yet.
That’s perimenopause in a nutshell. It’s unpredictable, gritty, disorienting. You try quick fixes, but sometimes they burn everything you meant to save. And still, deep down, change is happening. You’re changing. Your body, your mind, your heart.
What Still Grows
In those moments—when your garden’s struggling and your hormones feel like a compost pile—you learn patience. You learn what to fight for and what to release. You learn to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and find peace in small victories—like one stubborn zinnia or a moment of quiet in your own head.
And sometimes, you realize you’re a little naughty, a little fierce, and completely human. You sprayed vinegar and owned the fallout. You didn’t pretend things were perfect. You showed up anyway.
Here’s to the weeds, the wrinkles, the cat poop, and the ants.
Here’s to the wild, tangled, beautiful midlife—and the fierce, imperfect friendships that help us keep growing.
Why This Story Matters (and How to Make It Real)
One of the quiet truths of midlife is this: we are not meant to get through it alone. Hormonal shifts, identity shifts, grief, growth — all of it is easier when there’s someone nearby who can bring a bouquet, pour a glass, or sit with you while you laugh at the absurdity.
With Galentine’s Day around the corner, consider this permission to tend your friendships with the same care you’d give a struggling garden. (But really, when is it not a good time for a girls’ night?)
Not perfectly. Intentionally.
Here’s how to plan a girls’ night that actually restores you — not drains you.
- Keep it simple on purpose
This isn’t the season for elaborate menus or aesthetic pressure. Order takeout. Make soup. Open a bag of chips and call it a day. The point is presence, not performance.
- Choose people who let you be unfinished
Invite the women you don’t have to explain yourself to. The ones who won’t rush you to “fix it,” who understand that sometimes the best offering is showing up messy.
- Build in one grounding ritual
Light a candle. Take a walk. Share one honest check-in question: What’s growing? What feels stuck? What do you need more of right now?
You don’t need solutions — just witnesses.
- Let laughter count as medicine
Laughing at the ants, the weeds, the failed fixes — this is nervous system repair. Don’t underestimate it.
- Remember: tending still counts
Even if nothing feels “resolved,” choosing connection is an act of care. Roots grow in the dark. So do friendships.
Midlife isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about staying in relationship — with your body, your people, and yourself — even when the season feels unruly.
And if your garden is currently a mess? You’re still growing.
If this resonated, share it with a friend who brings you bouquets—or becomes one when your garden won’t bloom.
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