It’s not the end of anything—just the beginning of a silence of my own."
Menopause doesn’t need an elegy or a sympathy card. The way I’m experiencing it, it feels more like a spontaneous reconfiguration—one I’m thoroughly enjoying.
The body (finally) stops running on alarms, calendars, and above all, hormonal urgency. It doesn’t feel like a loss or a triumph. It simply feels like the natural consequence of staying alive beyond a certain age. And that, in itself, is already great news.
No longer having to prepare for the possible arrival of a fertilized egg, the uterus goes on holiday. It can finally focus on us—and on the deep friendship we’ve built over the years. The exact day of its final performance came and went like any other. No fireworks. No applause. Though if I had realized it was my last period, I might have stood up and clapped. I might’ve even sent it flowers.
Your period doesn’t leave like a bitter ex. It leaves like a flatmate who was around for a long time but finally found a job in another city. It leaves behind an empty shelf and a few forgotten clothes, but you’re happy for her. You know you won’t miss her. Some of her habits may linger, sure, but one day you’ll realize you haven’t thought about her in weeks. It’s a relief to live alone. And you’re glad.
Meanwhile, the world went on—scrolling, tapping, buying—oblivious to the shift happening inside my body. But I noticed. After a few days of adjustment and quiet observation, I realized what it was: a new kind of silence had taken hold of me. A magnificent, intense silence.
I welcomed it, named it hormonal silence, and prepared to enjoy it.
It wasn’t the solemn silence of a cathedral, nor the eerie hush of empty classrooms during summer. It was—and still is—a technical silence. Precise. Beautiful. A silence that lets me be. Nothing is trying to happen. Nothing is getting ready for anything. It’s not a malfunction. It’s serenity. Stillness. Peace.
My body has turned down the volume. There’s no longer machinery pushing out eggs or subtle cues demanding that I be available, fertile, desirable, or in top form. Sex is no longer a hormonal appointment. It’s dessert. Sometimes you want it, sometimes you don’t.
Hormonal silence clears the calendar in many ways. No more tracking fertile days or spotting ovulation signs. No surprise periods. No pregnancy tests. No desperate waiting or prayers whispered to the gods of faulty condoms.
Sure, skin changes. Hair too. You’ll never have oily hair again, and the Atacama Desert becomes a rainforest compared to the dryness of your shins. That’s when you discover a whole new world of creams—and collagen. I like the gummy ones, but the best one for me is a soluble powder. If you want the brand, ask me. It’s slowly bringing my nails back to life and adding volume to my hair, all with a pleasant orange flavor.
What’s curious is how the world keeps trying to pull you back—to make you look fertile again, or at least try. But those bullets don’t hit me anymore. I’m not trading this silence for anything. Hair care is one thing; returning to hormonal chaos is another.
This new silence doesn’t sound empty. It sounds like a tidy home. Like that bathroom you’ve just cleaned and, before closing the door, you pause to admire it. You slowly turn your head, soaking in the shine of the tiles and the perfectly folded towels—your handiwork. You smile. You nod to yourself. The universe can exhale now: the bathroom is done. The task is complete.
Our body, our mind, and our spirit savor the calm that comes from no longer functioning for others. And our home joins us. It had already grown quieter since the children left. But now our silences keep each other company, intertwining and singing in harmony.
For the first time in years, I’m not in a hurry. I give myself permission to be less productive. I stroll through my new kingdom. I embrace the bold, rough beauty that’s blooming in the new habitat I’m becoming.
I bless myself and look in the mirror like I did when I was a teenager—only now with far more wrinkles, yes, but also with far more wisdom and satisfaction.
More whole. More aged. More lived. And more alive.
Isabel Salas
