The Rage (Part 1 of 3)

I hate myself.

I fucking hate myself when I’m a week out from my period.

Every single month, it arrives like clockwork. I can feel it building in my body, and then—boom—I become a stranger to myself.

The woman who usually has a sunny disposition, patience for days, and a warm heart? She disappears. In her place is a cold, raging, short-fused version of me who could care less about anyone.

I don’t recognize her, but there she is

snapping,

yelling,

shutting down,

saying things that make me cringe later.

It’s hormonal rage.

And it is brutal.

It Sneaks Up Fast

The smallest things ignite it. Someone leaves crumbs on the counter. A kid forgets their socks on the couch. My workout gets interrupted—and instead of calmly adjusting, I lose my ever-loving shit.

“All I want is a little time to myself, for fuck sakes!”

And then the spiral begins. I slam the door, I cry, I stew in my anger, and I hate myself for being this person.

I know what’s happening.

I know it’s hormones hijacking my brain and body.

But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It feels uncontrollable.

Like I’m trapped in someone else’s skin.

Summer Made It Worse

In the winter, I can sneak away for space. A quiet walk. A coffee in silence. A pocket of solitude. That little buffer helps keep the rage at bay (sometimes)

But summer? Forget it. Everyone’s home. Everyone needs me. The house is full, loud, and constant.

And while I love my dudes deeply—when the rage week hits—I don’t want anyone around me unless they’re perfectly behaved.

Spoiler: kids are never perfectly behaved. And honestly even if they were I would find a reason to be rageful.

So the interruptions pile up, my patience evaporates, and I explode.

Over and over again.

The Hardest Part

The hardest part isn’t the rage itself.

It’s the aftermath.

The guilt.

The shame.

The tears.

The way I look at myself and think

“What is wrong with you? Why can’t you control this?”

I hate myself in those moments.

And yet… I also know this truth

I’m not broken.

I’m not a bad mom.

I’m not failing.

This is hormonal.

This is perimenopause.

This is my reality, and probably yours too if you’re nodding along right now.

You’re Not Alone

If you’ve ever screamed, slammed a door, cried in the bathroom, or said “I can’t do this anymore” through gritted teeth, please hear me you’re not alone!

The rage is real. It’s not in your head. And it doesn’t mean you’re weak.

It means your hormones are shifting. It means your body is changing. It means you’re in the thick of perimenopause.

And while I don’t have a magic fix (trust me, I’ve tried it all),

I can tell you this: we’re in this together.

Next time, I’ll share about the fallout from these rage storms—the guilt, the mess, and the repair work that comes after.

Because rage is only one part of the story.

👉 Stay tuned for Part 2: The Mess.

How is this series landing for you so far? I would love to have an open communication here with you. Share a comment or share this blog so other women, just like us, can feel less alone.