Porch Thoughts, Peppermint Oil, and a Muchacha After Menopause

 


If you haven’t figured it out by now, my thoughts are everywhere.

Like, “should-I-start-painting-the-fence-or-burn-it-down?” kind of everywhere.

It’s July 2, 2025, and I’m sitting on my back porch. We bought this house over three years ago because of the trees in the tiny backyard and the illusion of peace. Today, I’m debating if minimalism is the cure for my overactive brain while loud-ass cars blast down the road behind me.

Little car, big car, oh look—it’s a “Little Dick Syndrome” car.

You know the ones. The trucks so loud they rattle your internal organs? That’s ego on four wheels, baby. Call it judgment if you want, but when it interrupts my peace, I absolutely have something to say.

I keep gazing at our three-toned fence. It’s a patchwork of our chaos:

One section replaced after a tree fell.

Another swapped out when yet another tree decided to give up on life.

The original part? Hanging on like me—slightly weathered but still standing.

Inside, I dream about painting something beautiful on it. We painted the outside so the neighbors get the good view...you’re welcome, world. But the inside still needs some love.

Now there’s some kind of bug chirping, probably trying to get laid.
 Nature’s Tinder, right there in my bushes.
 Honestly, it sounds a bit like me last night—but I’ll save you the details.
 Or… maybe I won’t.

Here’s the thing:
 I’m menopausal.

Yep. Still.
 Eight years post-hysterectomy and now...for the first time...I’m struggling with the sex part.
 Before this, no issues. I wanted it, needed it, enjoyed it. The Barista and I had a rhythm.
 But recently? Things got weird. Hormones dipped. Desire dipped. Confidence dipped.
 And I’m over here just trying to dip something, you know?

Last week though?
 I got my spunk back.
 Let’s just say the Barista and I reconnected... and now I’m reminded that muscle repair from a fleur-de-lis tummy tuck is very real.
 Sore? Yes.
 Complaining? Absolutely not.
 Because mama’s still got it.

Let’s talk menopause for real.

It’s not discussed enough.
 It’s weird.
 It’s uncomfortable.
 It still makes some women feel ashamed.
 But this is real life, and it doesn’t come with a manual—just mood swings, hot flashes, and dry skin.

For me, losing my curls was the weirdest part. Like… what even? No one warned me about that.

I can’t take hormone replacement therapy (HRT) because the stuff that tried to kill me fed on hormones.
 So my oncologist was like, “Okay—but your muchacha still needs a little estrogen.”
 Enter: estradiol cream.
 Tiny pea-sized doses a couple of times a week that scare the absolute shit out of me every time I apply it.

But listen… if we want to keep the party going down there, we gotta give her what she needs. I want her to age gracefully, not retire early.

Best discovery during a hot flash?
 Peppermint oil.
 Back of the neck. Boom. Relief.

I used to take gabapentin for them until one day my body felt like a brick. We don’t play that anymore. Now I lean into homeopathic stuff...lotions, oils, hydration, and radical amounts of self-care.

It works.
 Kind of.
 Most days.

Also… random intrusive thought:
 DUMP TRUCKS NEED TO CALM THE F*CK DOWN.
 Anyway, back to my point...

You’re not broken.
 You’re not crazy.
 You’re not alone.

We spent most of our lives loathing periods, and now we’re here, post-period warriors, trying to make sense of new symptoms, new fears, and a whole new relationship with our bodies.

If you’re feeling “off,” advocate for yourself.
 Demand better care. Ask more questions. Trust your gut.

I’ll leave you with this:

My bestie is studying to become a personal trainer and currently spiraling over one section of coursework. She’s convinced deep breathing will help us weight. (She knows better, its just a portion of the work to get ourselves into the right head space)

So let’s test her theory.
 Take a deep breath with me.
 Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

And if you made it this far?

Know this:
 Your worth isn’t in your waistline.
 Your strength isn’t in your silence.
 And your story...however messy...is a masterpiece in motion.

Until next time,
 Keep the peppermint oil handy and your muchacha moisturized.

-Beth B. Blissful

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