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This past weekend I traveled to San Francisco for the Grateful Dead’s 60th anniversary shows—four days, 6 shows including support bands, a couple thousand porta potties (okay, maybe few hundred), and about 20 miles of walking. Plus later nights, crazy eating schedule… and so much fun! A not even 5 years ago, that mileage would’ve been a training weekend (or day!). Now it’s enough to need a recovery plan. Ice. Elevation. Maybe therapy (always!)
Travel is never exactly easy, but add in perimenopause and suddenly it’s a scavenger hunt for comfort. My knees were not amused by the hills or the hours of standing. The cool Bay Area weather helped, sort of… but here’s the thing: temperature becomes completely relative when you’re in perimenopause. I don’t get traditional hot flashes, but once I heat up, my body holds onto that warmth like it’s precious. Sweat doesn’t evaporate—it commits. My shirt stays damp long after the moment has passed. To some… if TMI, STOP READING. Judge me I’m Not concerned, or alone in this!
And that brings me to packing.
Packing for perimenopause feels a lot like packing for a race. Actually this entire weekend reminded me of a race weekend! Over planning and prepping and the. Well… fingers crossed. Strategic layers, moisture-wicking fabrics, backup options, and a touch of hope. Not to mention my trusty Lume deodorant and a variety of wipes (hey I always carry wipes never know when they are out of soap!) Breathable fabric are non-negotiable. Stretchy is appreciated. And let’s not forget fun—because if I’m going to be riding the hormonal rollercoaster, I’d at least like to do it in a cute top. (Preferably one that hides sweat and doubles as sleepwear in case I give up halfway through the day and take a nap in public.)
Then there’s the bathroom situation. Porta potties are a shared trauma for most outdoor event-goers; especially women. But when you’re deep in perimenopause, that bladder urgency turns a mildly annoying moment into a recurring plot twist. I’ll go, feel done, stand up, walk three feet… and realize I am not done. Cue round two. Sometimes I just get back in line! No hiding this anymore. My boyfriend knows. I know. Everyone nearby probably knows too. But I take comfort in the solidarity—other women hear me talk about it and nod with that look of thank you for saying it out loud.
That’s the thing with perimenopause: even when you’re doing everything “right,” managing your lifestyle, nutrition, movement, mindset—it still sneaks up. There’s always something new. Some days it’s an emotional wave. Some days it’s knees that hurt more than usual, or sleep that never quite arrives, or waking up feeling like someone swapped out your joints overnight.
It’s like during the early pandemic days—every weird symptom sent you down a rabbit hole. “Is it allergies or COVID?” has now become “Is it aging, a food I ate, or perimenopause?” Google has basically become my bestie and late night companion (I even have a strained tendon in my finger from propping the phone-i can’t win folks!)
And speaking of sleep… hotel sleep is always dicey, but when you’re already sleep-fragile, it’s next-level. Different mattress. Weird pillows. A partner who falls asleep instantly and snores like it’s a flex. Meanwhile, I’m staring at the ceiling, knees throbbing, debating whether I should just go to the bathroom again even though I just went; read, go fir a limp around the building, kill him-really just laugh and appreciate his dedication and support (always!). I am basically on a one-woman overnight relay race between the bed, the bathroom, and trying not to wake up my smugly sleeping boyfriend. Bragger haha!
And here’s the kicker: I’m hobbling around Golden Gate Park like someone twice my age, knees cracking, stopping to stretch, and trying not to audibly groan every time I sit down(did you all notice-please say no). Meanwhile, on stage, are two of the original band members—on either side of 80 years old—absolutely killing it. Playing for hours, handling it like the heroes they are, showing up with grit and grace. It made me feel a strange mix of awe, humility, and motivation. I mean, if they can still rock out in a capris, birds, and his Jedi robeat 77, I can manage my creaky knees with a little more pride. Or at least perspective.
And yet, despite the sweat, the knees, the bathroom marathons, and the lack of sleep—it was a great trip. I laughed. I danced. I sang along with thousands of people who just wanted to feel something. I moved my body, and I felt alive. Even when I was exhausted, I was grateful. Because this is where I am. This version of me is more vulnerable, yes—but also more honest, more real, and more open.
Do I get bummed out sometimes? Of course. But I also kind of love who I’m becoming.
And really, I love who I am.
We just don’t always agree.
How was YOUR weekend?
