Our house feels a bit like a hormonal greenhouse just now. My 12-year-old son is edging into puberty, I’m in perimenopause, and my poor husband’s wondering if there’s a quiet flat he can rent nearby. Our five-year-old daughter watches on, blissfully unaware that the rest of us are one burnt piece of toast away from tears.
It’s funny in that way that only family chaos can be — you’re living it, laughing about it, and slightly losing your mind all at once.
My son and I are both changing in ways we can’t quite control. He’s stretching out, his voice keeps catching, and emotions come and go like the Scottish weather. I’m not exactly a picture of stability myself. One minute I’m fine, the next I’m crying at the sight of his old baby shoes. We’re both tired, hungry, moody and baffled by what’s happening to our own bodies — we just express it differently.
It hasn’t been an overnight thing. But somewhere along the way, I started noticing the parallels between us — the way change can make you uncertain, the way your body feels unfamiliar, and how letting go of one stage before you fully understand the next is never easy. We’re both growing, in our own ways, in these new seasons of life, and we’re learning to move through together.
He’s growing up; I’m growing older. Our irritability mirrors each other, our sensitivity overlaps. We are both changing in ways that feel uncomfortable and confusing. It’s not a competition for whose hormones are worse; it’s a shared storm we’re learning to sail through, each in our own boat, side by side.
There have definitely been more sparks between us lately – nothing dramatic, just those small everyday clashes that seem to flare from nowhere. He’ll roll his eyes at something I’ve said, I’ll overreact, and suddenly we’re both cross and don’t really know why. It’s as if we’re learning how to communicate all over again. Once we’ve cooled off, we’re better at circling back, saying sorry and talking about what was really going on underneath. It’s messy, but it’s honest.
The thing is, I never had this kind of openness when I was growing up. When my mum went through menopause, I was also going through puberty – but we never talked about it. There were signs, of course. I remember her being tired, maybe snappier than usual, but we didn’t have the language for it. She just got on with it quietly, the way so many women of her generation did.
Now, I’m trying to do things differently. To talk. To make sense of what’s happening without shame or secrecy.
Sometimes that means explaining that I’m not angry, just overwhelmed. Other times, it means listening when my son can’t quite find the words for what he’s feeling. There’s something surprisingly bonding about both of us admitting we don’t always know what’s going on in our own heads and bodies.
I usually start small, often in the car or when we’re walking the dog. I’ll say something like, “You know how you get those moods that come from nowhere? Grown-ups get them too.” It breaks the tension and reminds us both that feelings aren’t something to fix, just to notice. He’s actually far more receptive when it’s not a Big Chat; it’s the little side conversations that seem to land.
And there’s comedy in it too. One night recently, he stomped off mid-argument about homework. A few minutes later, I found myself sulking in my room too. Two hormonal flatmates in one house – it would be funny if it weren’t so familiar.
When we finally made peace, I told him that sometimes I get upset and don’t even know why. He looked at me and said, “Yeah, me too.” Then he grinned. “Maybe it’s contagious.”
That moment felt big because that’s the part of parenting we don’t talk about enough – the lessons that go both ways. He’s learning that emotions are normal and temporary; I’m learning that patience is something you practise, not something you have.
My husband, meanwhile, is watching it all unfold with quiet caution, careful not to trigger either of us, while our daughter skips between us all, happily balanced in her own world.
What I’m realising, though, is that these messy, emotional, slightly ridiculous moments are where the connection grows. We’re both learning that feelings don’t have to be fixed – they can just be felt. This is something I want both my kids to take into adulthood.
We talk about teenage hormones all the time – mood swings, growth spurts, the works – but we rarely talk about midlife ones with the same acceptance. Yet both stages demand compassion, rest and space. It’s funny that one marks the start of fertility and the other its end, and somehow they’ve ended up overlapping in our kitchen.
There are days when the moods clash, the conversations go nowhere, and I lose all sense of calm. But there are also days when I catch my son chatting away to me in the car, open and curious, and I think: this is the point.
If he can grow up seeing a woman in her forties being honest about her emotions, even when they’re messy, that’s something. And if I can learn from him how to see change as growth, not loss, that’s something too.
Growing up and growing older both require grace. They both test your patience. They both ask you to let go of who you were and make room for who you’re becoming.
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So, to anyone else navigating your own seasonal growths under one roof – embrace the chaos. Lean into the emotions and feel them all, together, openly and honestly. How we deal with them as adults gives our children permission to do the same. If we hide away, they’ll learn that too.
There’s power in showing vulnerability in front of our kids. We don’t always have the answers – and maybe it’s time we stop pretending we do.
After all, puberty with perimenopause isn’t for the faint-hearted, but beyond the mess of it all, sharing this stage with my son has turned out to be one of the most unexpectedly special chapters of parenthood.
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