Take the Trip. Do the Thing.

The joy of being completely and fully understood...on the side of a mountain.

“I worked really fucking hard to like myself,

and I’m pissed that she’s being stolen from me.”

I felt the liquid filling my nasal passages as I blinked hard to keep the tears pooling in my bottom lids from falling onto my face. I sat with three wine glasses in front of me, prepared to taste the bounty of Portuguese wine country, the smell of my own sweat wafting from the seat, staring at my best friend and feeling exhausted by the effort of getting to this truth.

We had hiked 5.5 miles the day before, laughing as we off-roaded under barbed wire through some Portuguese vineyard in the rain. The steep pitch stole our breath and made us grateful for the hiking boots we had contemplated leaving behind. We’d meandered through topic after topic over the several hour journey, but we’d saved this particular conversation for today, for the “down”. Maybe because we were tacitly avoiding it, or maybe just because we needed to warm up a bit before covering such touchy territory.

The topic was couched as an “HRT discussion”, my friend inquiring as to my take on hormone replacement therapy. See, as a former genetic counselor, the people in my life know that I have just enough medical knowledge to be dangerous. The proof of this came on the plane ride home when the flight attendants got on the intercom and requested a doctor or nurse to assist with a medical emergency, and my friend turned to me and said, “You could go up there, right?”

To be clear, the answer is categorically No, but I jokingly said, “If we get to the point of asking for veterinarians because we struck out with the doctors and nurses, that’s about the level where I slot in.”

With that baseline understanding of my clinical abilities in mind, understand that the origin of this conversation was, for sure, some surface level question about what I thought about the medical benefit of HRT for certain symptoms. In reality, though, my friend knows I’m no doctor. She wasn’t asking me for my professional opinion on the side of a mountain halfway from Sabrosa to Pinhao; she was asking me to listen to her stuff and reflect back what degree of fucked she found herself in.

Pinh͠ao…affectionately retitled “Pin-Ho” by my friend.

Except, I had the same question. Half the reason I was on this trip is because I had achieved a level of irritability in my own life that made me question my sanity. I know much of it stems from overscheduling and overdoing, the result of four weeks of overlapping “yes’s” that were all valid, but in hindsight, probably would have benefitted from some preemptive “no’s”. But, its more than that. My body has stopped cooperating. I often feel like my mind has too. And the person that I have so painstakingly worked to mold over the past year and a half in particular feels like she’s slipping out of my fingers.

We had talked for two miles before reaching this point, some unexpected uphill moments resulting in contemplative breaks in the conversation. In deference to her privacy, I’m sharing only my own admissions, but suffice it to say, the more she talked, the harder I nodded. And while my role in this conversation started as supportive listener (and fake medical provider), I couldn’t help but contribute more and more “Yes, ands…” to what she was saying.

There is something to sharing on the side of a mountain. To looking out at the vastness on one side and having your conscious brain taken over by the awe of it all such that your subconscious can actually let go of what its been holding on to. The sun burned off the fog from the chilly morning, and the valley shone in all its Fall brilliance. As we started to descend down, forty year old knees screaming with each step, it became clear that we were on the same path.

“I don’t think I actually need HRT now,” she said, “but if I go talk about the symptoms that I’m having, everyone will just get stuck on those even though they are not the problem. They are my body telling me there’s a much bigger, different problem that’s about to pull me under.”

Vehemently nodding, I added, “Yeah, and I want to know what’s supposed to bridge the gap between now and then. We’re not really going to just live like this for another five or ten years, are we?”

I’ve been talking about perimenopause for the past year or so because it feels like the thing every one of my forty+ year old friends are talking about. It’s similar to when you have kids in diapers and all you can manage conversationally are stories about blow outs and the slow progression to pull ups. It’s both a sick fascination and a stage you desperately want to let go of, but cannot seem to outrun.

But, I’ve never had a conversation like this. One that is less about what to do about perimenopause and more about what has already been done. One that focuses not on the belly fat nor the itchy ears, although we covered both, but hones in on the hurt that hovers underneath those oddities.

It was a conversation about fear. The fear of losing ourselves…again.

And maybe even worse than the fear is the uncertainty. Is this an inevitable transition? And, if so, then what, exactly, should we be fighting for? Is it even possible to fight for the selves we thought we were or should we be future fighting, for selves are currently beyond us but could be…may be…if?

I went to Portugal for joy. And I knew I’d find her. She likes to travel too, so its a pretty easy, albeit somewhat expensive cheat. What I didn’t expect, because joy amuses herself by keeping me guessing, was the source of that joy. It wasn’t the mountains, although they were stunning. It wasn’t the people, although I couldn’t have asked for better companions. It wasn’t the wine, although the amount I shipped home suggests otherwise.

Joy sat down at that table with us and served up a tasting of her own. She offered a sample of what it felt like to be deeply…fully…understood.

Tears puddled in my eyes because I’ve been running from this, well, around it really. I’ve been tackling nutrition and supplements and sleep and exercise and sugar and schedule and everything that I can control to make my body do what I want and protect me from total loss of self. And despite all of the perimenopausal conversations and the Instagram accounts and the Midi Health’s of the world, the thing I was lacking, was the honesty and space to say...

I feel crazy.

Turns out, I probably don’t need HRT either. At least right now. What I needed was to hike through the Portuguese mountains on an unguided tour in the rain up 1400 feet with someone who trusts me enough to ask me, “Am I crazy?” and then creates space for me to nuzzle in next to her as I gulp out, “Only if I am too.”

The friend…

My first response to things I do not like and cannot fix is anger.

I was angry with my Mom when she was diagnosed with what would have been completely treatable cancer.

I was angry with everyone when my husband broke his face thanks to a 23-year old trying to squeeze a yellow…unsuccessfully.

I was angry when I needed to leave my job but didn’t know how and didn’t trust myself enough to let go of the salary and the title.

So it is unsurprising that for the past several months, my anger has been roiling, a volcano burping steam to signal the coming eruption. Before this trip, I knew that part. That was MY symptom. Irrational irritability. All the time. At everyone.

What I couldn’t put my finger on was why. But, thanks to joy, and a best friend who trusts me more than I trust myself, I now know.

I’m angry that I feel like I’m losing myself.

I don’t exactly know what I’m going to do with that knowledge yet. I’m still nursing the shin splints from the physical pressure of descending on foot when it might have been more effective to just roll. But sometimes the action taken isn’t as important as the understanding gained.

The “down”. Um…yeah.

There’s a reason the proverbial “they” says “Take the trip.” “Do the thing.” “Say yes.” In my estimation, it’s not actually because no one is promised tomorrow. Just going may be worse than dying depending on what you say yes to. It’s because joy often can’t find you in your every day life. She’s dodging cars in the pick up line and getting interrupted by alarms and overwhelmed by your to-do list. But when you mix it up, when you interrupt the chaos of your own existence, you create space for joy to swoop in.

Take the trip. Do the thing. Stay open to joy.

Because even when you feel lost, she knows where to find you.

The Joy Luck Club is a free publication, but hiking for sanity is not a free method of therapy. If you’d like to support my work (and mental health) monetarily, I’d be deeply appreciative if you’d buy me a joy💣.

If you, too, are feeling the need for a little mountain action, I highly recommend Portugal Nature Trails. This is the specific trip we took. I clearly disagree with their grading designation. 🙄