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It started at 37. The exhaustion that chaar cup chai couldn't fix. The anxiety that showed up out of nowhere — between the pressure cooker whistle and the school bus horn, between cutting sabzi and answering a work call, between absolutely nothing and pure panic. And the complete disappearance of wanting my husband anywhere near me. I spent four years convinced kuch toh gadbad hai mujh mein. Turns out I was right — just not the way I thought. At 37, you don't think "pre-menopause." You think: thak gayi hoon bas. Bachche chhote hain. Kaam zyada hai. Sasural ka pressure hai. Life is a lot. So I pushed through. Jaise hum sab karti hain. Like every Indian woman since the beginning of time. Chai at 6 AM. Half a Disprin for the headache by noon. Maybe a glass of wine at night because "we're modern like that." And a lot of "main theek hoon" to anyone who asks. Theek nahi thi. The exhaustion got worse. Not "need more sleep" tired. "Ek hafte so jaoon tab bhi kuch nahi hoga" tired. I'd sleep eight hours and wake up like someone had drained me overnight. Like my body was running a programme in the dark that used up everything. Then came the anxiety. Out of nowhere. Brutal. Heart racing while making the kids' tiffin. Chest tight in the middle of a Zoom call. Standing in the DMart aisle staring at rice and suddenly unable to breathe — like the choice between Daawat and Fortune was a life-or-death decision. That constant feeling — kuch bura hone wala hai. Even when nothing was wrong. Especially when nothing was wrong. And then — the thing I couldn't tell anyone. Not Mummy. Not my sister. Not my best friend. Definitely not anyone in the family WhatsApp group. Mujhe Raj se koi physical closeness nahi chahiye thi. Not slowly. Like someone flipped a switch. Ek din sab normal tha — we were still playful, still us, still finding moments after the bachche slept. The next, his touch felt like too much. His hand on my waist while I was in the kitchen — hatt jao, please. The idea of intimacy went from something warm to something I dreaded. At 37. Love marriage. A man I chose against my parents' first choice. And suddenly — kuch nahi feel ho raha. I thought maybe it was us. Maybe dus saal ki shaadi mein yeh hota hai. Spark khatam. Happens to everyone, na? But it wasn't the spark. It was me. Something in me had shut down. Andar se band ho gayi thi. 38 was the year of theories. Maybe I'm depressed? My college friend — the one who lives abroad and talks about therapy openly — suggested I try it. I found someone online. Because going to a therapist in our neighbourhood? Colony mein sabko pata chal jayega. "Sunna hai Priya therapy le rahi hai — kya hua hoga?" Therapy helped with some things. Not with this. Maybe thyroid? Got tested. Thyrocare. ₹1,200. Normal. Everything normal. Always normal. Maybe I just need to try harder? Forced myself. Lay there performing wifely duty while mentally going through the kids' school schedule. Exam kab hai. PTM kis din hai. Maths tuition ki fee deni hai. Raj was patient. Bahut patient. He never pressured me. But I could see it — confusion turning to hurt turning to that quiet fear: "She doesn't want me anymore." "Main chahti hoon tumhe," I'd say. "Bas abhi feel nahi ho raha." He'd nod. But how long can someone wait for "abhi" to end? Mummy-ji sensed something. Woh hamesha sense karti hain. "Bahu, sab theek hai? Tum dono mein koi baat?" "Sab theek hai, Mummy-ji." "Haldi waala doodh piyo raat ko. Aur ghar mein Shiv Parvati ki photo rakho bedroom mein. Hamari saasu-ma ne bhi yahi kaha tha." Haldi doodh and Shiv-Parvati. Indian marriage counselling in two steps. My own mother called. "Beta, sab theek hai na ghar mein?" I almost told her. ALMOST. The words were right there. Then she said: "Shaadi mein adjustments toh karni padti hain. Tumhare Papa aur mere bhi mushkil saal the. Chalta hai." Chalta hai. Adjust karo. Sab theek ho jayega. The three mantras of Indian womanhood. As if "adjusting" ever fixed whatever was broken in my body. 39 was when my bhabhi mentioned it. Diwali. Kitchen. All the women making gujiyas while the men were in the drawing room pretending to discuss politics but actually watching India vs Australia. "Pre-menopause late thirties mein bhi shuru ho sakta hai, you know? Meri friend ko 38 mein hi start ho gaya tha. Hot flushes, mood swings, sab." I Googled it that night. Raj so raha tha. Phone ki brightness minimum pe. Fatigue. Anxiety. Sleep problems. Low libido. Brain fog. Weight changes. Mood swings. Har. Ek. Symptom. Relief laga pehle. Finally, an explanation! Something with a name! Then dread. Because everything I read said: perimenopause can last 8-10 years. Symptoms come and go. There's no cure. Just "management." Yahi hai meri zindagi ab? This half-alive, numb version of me — for a DECADE? Main "adjust" karti rahoon das saal? 40 was the year I almost gave up. I'd tried everything the internet and every aunty told me. Ashwagandha. Shatavari. That expensive Ayurvedic kadha from Forest Essentials. Kesar in doodh. Evening primrose capsules from Amazon. Moringa powder someone shared in the colony WhatsApp group with seventeen prayer emojis and "100% natural no side effects." Nothing worked. Ya toh four days kaam kiya aur phir wapas square one. Shaadi chal rahi thi. Indian marriages survive everything — that's what they're designed for. But surviving isn't living. Hum polite the. Efficient the. Co-parents the. Ghar chal raha tha. Rishta nahi chal raha tha. Then one night — midnight, scrolling Instagram because that's what 40-year-old Indian insomniacs do between Reels of Bhuvan Bam and quick recipe videos — I saw a post. A woman talking about her "pre-menopause" symptoms. Same list. Same words. But then she said something that made me stop mid-scroll. "I blamed perimenopause for three years. But when I finally addressed my nervous system, everything changed. It wasn't my hormones shutting me down. It was my body stuck in survival mode." Nervous system. Survival mode. Yeh pehli baar suna tha aise. I read everything. And jitna padha, utna sense bana. Chronic stress doesn't just live in your mind. It lives in your body. And when you've been running on stress for years — which, let's be real, that's literally every Indian woman running a ghar, bachche, naukri, sasural, rishtedaar, festivals, tiffin boxes, PTMs, kitty parties, and everyone's emotional needs while being told "tum toh superwoman ho" — your nervous system gets stuck. Fight or flight. All the time. Subah ki pooja se raat ki bartan tak — the system never switches off. And to conserve energy, it shuts down "non-essential" functions. Deep sleep. Clear thinking. Patience. Joy. And desire. Connection. Apnapan. The ability to let someone close. Your body can't do closeness when it thinks it's in danger. Jab system ko lagta hai ki khatara hai — toh woh intimacy ko bhi threat maanta hai. Because vulnerability requires safety. And your body hasn't felt safe in years. In the comments — Indian women. Delhi. Mumbai. Bangalore. Pune. Jaipur. Women saying "mujhe laga sirf meri problem hai" and "maine socha yeh normal hai humari age mein." One mentioned Liven. An app. Micro-Cycle Method. Five minutes a day. I was sceptical. Chaar saal mein kya nahi try kiya. But kya farak padta hai — five minutes compared to four years? So I tried. Week 1: Honestly? Stupid laga. Like, bas yahi hai? Yahi fix karega? Almost quit twice. But I'd promised myself — ek chance aur. Week 2: Something strange happened. Office ja rahi thi. Driving. And I realised — mera steering wheel nahi pakda hua hai jaise ki accident hone wala ho. Shoulders down the. Hath halke the. I was just... driving. Sounds small. It wasn't. Week 3: Raj made one of his terrible dad jokes at dinner. The kind that makes the kids groan and I usually ignore. But I laughed. Sacchi waali hansi. Full laugh. He stared at me. Bachche confused. "Mumma ko kya hua? Itna kyun has rahi hai?" Because Mumma hadn't laughed like that in years. Isiliye. Week 4: Serial ke baad. Bachche so gaye. I felt it — a tiny spark. Of wanting to be close to him. Not duty. Not "should." Actual wanting. I moved closer. Put my head on his shoulder. Usne saans rok li. Like he was afraid to move. Afraid it would stop. Week 6: Maine kiss kiya. Not the peck on the forehead while running out for school drop. Really kissed him. Because I wanted to. Mera body chahta tha. Pehli baar kayi saalon mein. He pulled back and looked at me. "Kaun ho tum? Meri wife ko kya kiya tumne?" I laughed. "I think main waapas aa rahi hoon." It's been four months. I'm not the woman I was at 35. But I'm also not the exhausted, numb, disconnected bhoot I was at 40. Sleep better hai. Hansi waapas aayi hai. Cheezon ka mann karta hai phir se — trips, plans, festivals that don't feel like ek aur kaam. And Raj? Hum phir se hum hain. Different. Older. But connected. Present. Actually wanting each other. Mummy-ji said last week: "Bahu, aajkal bahut achha lag rahi ho. Glowing. Haldi doodh ka asar hai." I smiled. Haan Mummy-ji. Haldi doodh. Four years I thought main toot gayi hoon. That pre-menopause ne meri zindagi cheen li. That "adjust karo" was the only option. That this is just what Indian marriages become after forty. Nahi. It was a nervous system that had been screaming for help while I blamed my hormones and adjusted my way through it. If you've been exhausted, anxious, and numb since your late 30s... If every doctor says "hormonal hai" and every aunty says "umar hai"... If you miss who you used to be and "adjust karo" makes you want to throw something... It might not be your hormones. It might be your nervous system stuck in survival mode from years of carrying everything for everyone while being told "yeh toh sabke saath hota hai." Nahi hota. Aur hona bhi nahi chahiye. Liven has a quiz. Three minutes. Shows you what's actually going on. I wish I'd found it four years ago. Before the chuppi. Before Raj stopped reaching. Before I forgot what feeling alive tastes like. The link is below. 💙