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Last summer I found out I was post-menopausal.

I had no idea where I was hormonally. I just knew something felt… off. The health anxiety. The random palpitations. The weight gain that wouldn’t budge no matter how “good” I was being. I knew I was somewhere in the hormonal riff — I just didn’t know I’d already crossed the finish line.

When my labs came back and my doctor gently told me I had probably been done for a while, I sat there stunned. No parade. No ceremony. Just, “Oh. Okay then.”

Fast forward to this past Friday.

I was packing for a girls getaway and grabbed a suitcase I hadn’t used in years. I unzipped the satin pocket liner and there it was. A lone tampon. Tucked away like it had been waiting for its moment.

These used to make me crabby. They signified inconvenience. Beach plans interrupted. Cramps. Timing that never quite cooperated.

But this one?

This one felt like a tiny time capsule.

I twirled it between my fingers and laughed — remembering what it felt like to be young with an estradiol level above 3. 😅

And then… I felt a little sad.

Sad for the version of me who packed that “just in case.”
Sad for the body that quietly did its job for decades without applause.
Sad in the way you are when you realize something has ended and you didn’t even know it was the last time.

I stood there wondering if I should pickle it like a dinosaur egg or just toss it in the trash.

I threw it away.

But not before I let myself feel it.

For the first time, it didn’t annoy me. It reminded me that our bodies move on. They change. They shift us into new seasons whether we’re emotionally ready or not.

There’s something holy about that.
And something a little heartbreaking, too.

Here’s to the women we were.
And the women we’re becoming.