“The insomnia is killing me,” my friend said as we made her bed. We’d finally scheduled a long-overdue catch-up and sleepover at my beach pad, the perfect getaway to help her hit refresh. “It’s because of the night sweats,” she explained as I fussed about, fluffing her pillow and feeling guilty that I’d likely enjoy eight hours of perspiration-free sleep when the lights went out.

“One day, I had to hide in the work bathroom; I was flooding. I didn’t have enough tampons, so a colleague rushed out to buy me a spare skirt. It was mortifying,” she continued as I boiled the kettle for our nightcap tea, deciding chamomile to be an excellent choice.

“I’m not missing it. I’m not really into it anymore,” she shared when the conversation turned to her marital intimacy, as all good sisterhood sleepovers should.

Wait, what?

This revelation floored me. It came from one of the sauciest people I knew. This was the same person who, during her single days in the early 2000s, had a tabloid-worthy whirlwind fling with a member from one of the world’s hottest bands (musically and aesthetically).

But things change. And that’s what I grew up knowing it as: The Change. Never menopause. And certainly not perimenopause, a term I only heard a decade ago.

Feeling cosy, softly blowing steam across the cup of hot tea, my friend turned the conversation to me, asking if I’d reached menopause yet. Understandable. I was over 50 and six years older than her.

It wasn’t the first time someone close to me opened up about their experience and prompted me to share my peri proclamation.

One friend attributed her disruptive mood swings and 10kg weight gain, despite training harder than ever, to perimenopause. Another found relief when her unexplained years of anxiety finally made sense after skipping two periods. Plus, a top-level athlete, also dear to me, revealed an eight-year struggle navigating how horrible she felt. Meanwhile, two friends’ excessive bleeding caused anaemia, both needing iron transfusions and one requiring surgery.

So, what should I do when probed about my tales of hormonal horrors?

Yes, I’ve explained. I still have my periods. They’re pretty regular. No, not heavy. Hot flushes? Nah, not yet. I even doona-up during summer. Fatigue? Perhaps, but it’s hard to tell; I’ve had glandular fever, so I love a sneaky nanna nap anyway. Brain fog? Umm, no more than usual during my luteal phase. However, I do have three hairs growing from my chin, am more headache-y than usual, my legs now suck up more moisturiser, and there’s an extra 5kg stubbornly settled around my boobs and belly, I offer in an attempt to curb unintended cockiness.

Should I keep my smug mouth shut and allow those struggling through perimenopause my portion of the attention? Does my shared experience help or hinder?

It’s encouraging to witness menopause becoming more normalised in media and entertainment. I mean, it’s not surprising from shows such as The Golden Girls and the Sex in the City franchise. But, unexpected was Katey Sagal’s 2008 portrayal of the terrifying Sons of Anarchy biker matriarch Gemma Teller Morrow going through menopause. Her vulnerability was refreshing, although her violent menopausal behaviour, not so much. But, given her character, solely blaming the hormones is a stretch. More recently, that iconic moment Imogen Crump paused mid-sentence during a live news broadcast to reveal she was experiencing a poorly-timed hot flush. And leaders in the field, Mamamia’s excellent resource, the Very Peri audio series.

However, an article by The Women’s Agenda, based on a Jean Hailes study, cautioned that honest discussion about extreme cases that catastrophise menopause risks stigmatising women over 40, potentially leading to further workplace discrimination. In contrast, The Women’s Agenda reported Labor’s support of the Greens Party’s motion for a Senate inquiry on the health, financial and social impacts of menopause and perimenopause. Until society catches up, it’s complicated.

Honestly, the potential peri symptoms I see inundating my algorithms petrify me. I’m unsettled if a harsh reality could strike at any moment or if I’ll continue to soar to the other side unscathed. Perhaps if society and workplaces better supported this poignant life stage, I’d feel more at ease.

On introspection, I potentially harbour insecurities surrounding menopause to work through. And it’s likely everything to do with my single status and being on dating apps in mid-life. I’m resistant to a milestone that inevitably marks me as older. And, yes, I’m aware of the absurdity that this is the role of every birthday I’ll ever have. Is it superficial that I cling to my youth? Probably. Am I fearful that hitting the big M might heighten the challenge of finding an appealing partner? Especially someone supportive who’d offer understanding if I were to face severe hormonal hiccups? Maybe.

Who knows? Perhaps this projected overthinking is simply another part of the peri package, and something I should discuss loudly and proudly.