October has always been a particular month for me. Not only do I celebrate my birthday, but I also share it on the same day as my husband’s birthday. Talk about a cosmic coincidence! As if that wasn’t enough, my sister’s birthday fell just one day after mine, and my best friend’s was five days later. October is like a never-ending birthday parade around here—with cake, candles, and too much love.
This year, however, my enthusiasm is, well, fading. I’m deep into my premenopausal journey, and let me tell you, this hormonal rollercoaster does not come with an “exit” sign. As my birthday crept closer, I wished everyone who cared enough to say “Happy Birthday” would suddenly develop a temporary case of amnesia. Maybe, just maybe, if no one mentioned it, I could convince myself I was staying exactly where I was on the age-o-meter.
Unfortunately, the years do not pause for premenopausal prayers. Age hit me this year, and not just a gentle tap on the shoulder, either. Oh no, it came in like a wrecking ball—a direct hit to the head and a full-body smackdown. Everything hurts.
I’m at the point where even getting out of bed is like emerging from a deep-sea expedition. Knees crack, back creaks, and don’t even get me started on the random aches that seem to come from nowhere. I even did not hit my fifties.
And yet, despite the physical rebellion my body is staging, here’s to the slow, steady, and slightly bruised journey of finishing my 47th lap around the sun. I’m still standing, still claiming my space and October. It’s still mine.
Dana Obeid
