Earlier this week, I woke up after a night of “sleep” consisting of 45-minute naps between 12 trips to the bathroom. Putting my workout clothes on was a workout, in and of itself. I walked downstairs to feed my dog, each step weighed down by a fatigue I couldn’t even describe. . The idea of hitting the treadmill and then “heavy lifting,” as prescribed to women who are going through what I’m going through—it made me want to cry. The idea of chugging the protein shake for breakfast—also prescribed to women who are going through what I’m going through—it made me want to barf. In the end, I did neither. Instead, I plopped down on the couch with my dog and played “catch my slipper” with her for 30 minutes before diving into my workday, feeling a little bit like a failure. . There is some part of me saying, “Oh STFU and snap out of it, you whiney weak little girl.” That part of me warns me against talking about perimenopause, about airing my stained laundry for all to see. Because it’s shame...