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You know that moment at 3 AM when you bolt awake, heart racing, remembering that you forgot to call your mother back about her new medication? Or that you need to check on your adult daughter who's been radio silent for three days? Or that your partner's cholesterol results came back borderline and you still haven't researched what that actually means? That's not insomnia. That's your brain trying to keep track of approximately 47,000 moving pieces while running on fumes. Let

I'm holding my favorite coffee mug right now as I write this. It's handmade by a ceramicist named Arthur Tobias—slightly imperfect, beautifully sturdy, with spiral finger marks running up the body and a handle that fits my hand like it was made just for me. The tag that came with it reads: "From the twisted-wire-cut bottom, to the pulled handle, to the spiraling finger marks of the slightly flared body, the mug you are holding is the current summation of everything Art has le

I used to think I was doing everything right. Walking 10,000 steps a day. Taking the stairs when I could. Parking far from the store entrance. All those little movements that fitness trackers celebrate with confetti animations and cheerful badges. And yet, during my worst menopause years, I still felt like I was moving through fog. My energy was shot. My body felt... heavy. Different. Like it was working against me instead of with me. Almost like I was wearing a wet blanket o

The hot flash that woke you up at 3 a.m. The word you couldn't pull from your brain mid-sentence. The energy crash that hit before lunch. These moments don't feel like gifts. They feel like betrayals. And here's what most wellness advice tells you to do: Fight back. Biohack your hormones. Optimize your sleep. 'Fix yourself' back to normal! But what if there's a different way to look at what's happening in your body right now? The Brain Chemistry of Fighting vs. Flowing When w

I'll never forget the morning I stood in my kitchen, staring at my coffee maker like it was a complex piece of machinery I'd never seen before. I'd made coffee in that same machine thousands of times. But on that particular Tuesday, I couldn't remember if I'd already added water. Or coffee grounds. Or pressed the button. My brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. My body felt heavy, foreign. And the thought that scared me most? I couldn't remember what I was even working to