When She Finally Packed Her Bags and Left

She’s gone...

After years of showing up uninvited, staying too long, being wildly unpredictable, and bringing drama like a reality TV star—I think she’s finally left for good.

Yes, I’m talking about my time of the month—Aunt Flo, Shark Week, crimson tide, menstruation cycle, period—or whatever name she went by in your house growing up.. But we’re going to call her She from now on because… well, she earned that title. She’s been with me longer than some friendships, relationships, and job titles. And now she’s ghosted me.

Is that a good thing?

Listen, I’ve been preparing for her departure for years. But in my late 40s she started with on-again, off-again visits: The classic three-month vacation, followed by a surprise reappearance just when I thought it was safe to wear white. Then six months off—and bam, back again. But the final act? She came twice a month for five months straight. Bold. Disrespectful. And too dramatic.

Every time I went to the doctor and confidently said, "She’s done. I think I’m officially in menopause," she must’ve been listening. Because that same week she’d show up like, "Surprise! Miss me?"

My doctor was trying to schedule a bone density test, which you’re supposed to get once you’ve been period-free for 12 months. (It checks for osteoporosis, which becomes a risk when estrogen levels drop.) But every time I tried to close the door on her, she’d wedge her foot in and crash on my couch for a few more days.

But now? It's been long enough that I think it’s safe to say she’s gone. And like someone who left in a rage, she didn’t go quietly. She left things behind. Symptoms.

I still get the migraines, the bloating, the fatigue. I still crave pizza like I’m 17. I still get the occasional desire to strangle my husband because it takes him six full minutes to answer a yes or no question (why is that?). And yes, I still get irrationally emotional and super tired around the time she would’ve visited. They’re lessoning. Slowly. But they’re still here—like the scent of someone’s perfume lingering after they’ve left the room.

So how do I feel now that she’s officially gone? Relieved. Confused. A little sentimental.

She was never exactly convenient. I flowed heavy my whole life. Travel days were nightmares. White pants? Never. I carried around a small pharmacy in my purse, just in case. Now? I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to worry about leaks, backups, or last-minute sprints to the store.

But there’s this weird grief too.

Wait. Don't roll your eyes and give me that Oprah look. Hear me out.

When she left, she took one of the greatest things about being a woman. And I'm not saying I wanted another baby (I didn’t. My kids are adults). But because… it was an option. I gave life. And now it’s gone. Again, no, I’m not trying to be Janet Jackson and have a baby at 50-something, but the option was a comfort.

Also, let’s be real... she was a great excuse:

“I can’t tonight—hormone flucs. I have a migraine because she’s coming.”

That was good for a solid seven days of peace. Now? I’ve got to get more creative.

So what do I do with this giant bin of pads, tampons, and pantyliners of every size and superpower level? I feel like I should donate them, or something. I mean, they aren't used. Is that gross?

Honestly though, I like this stage. I’m freer and not defined by a cycle anymore. It’s weird and new. But it’s the new me—my new season.

So goodbye, She. Thanks for the memories… and the migraines. You won’t be missed. But you will be remembered.

(P.S. If you’ve got a name for your period other than "She," I’m all ears. I feel like she deserves a roast-worthy sendoff.)

Until the next hot flash…

 💋 LB