TWKN Network Presents Side Porch Stories: This Too Shall Pass

Side Porch Stories: This Too Shall Pass

Hey everybody.

Welcome to my proverbial side porch.

I’m Lisa N. Alexander, founder of This Woman Knows — and today, I’m your side porch aunty, here to share a story or two.

This is where secrets and stories get told… in housecoats and bonnets.
Where bras and shoes are optional. Because there’s no company to impress here.
That’s front porch energy.

This summer audio series invites you to slow down. To listen. To laugh a little. To maybe even learn a thing or two… from real-life stories.

Like the time I didn’t sleep in my bed for a whole year.
Not because I didn’t like my husband. (chuckle)
But because my body was changing. Perimenopause came for me like a second puberty— and nothing felt the same.

This episode is about what that season revealed. What it took. What it gave. And how it changed my relationship… with rest. With food. And with myself.

So pull up a chair. You snap the green beans—I’ll make the tea.

You ready? Alright.

Listen. There is something about perimenopause that will reconnect you with your five-year-old self.

For a whole year, I didn’t sleep in my bed. Not because I was mad. Not because we were fighting.
But because my body ached. My right hip raged!

No matter how we adjusted—mattress toppers, new mattresses, fancy pillows—my body said no. I was Goldilocks with no happy ending. Too soft, too hard, too everything.

The only place in the whole house that allowed me to rest, even just for a few hours, was the sofa. That was my sanctuary.

I’d start off in bed next to my husband like usual, but as soon as he was asleep, I’d tiptoe out and find my way to the couch.

Because the sofa supported me. I could toss and turn, fling my leg over a pillow, throw the covers off and back on, and spin myself 180 degrees without worrying about waking anyone up.

It was unhinged, toddler-level sleeping. But it worked.

And in that season, rest didn’t look how it used to. It looked like survival. It looked like adaptation. It looked like letting go of the shame of “grown women sleep in their beds.”

The bed became a battleground, and the sofa became a soft place to land.

There is a rage that lives in the body when hormones shift. And “hot flash” doesn’t begin to cover it.

It’s heat and panic and tears and irritation all rolled into one wave that nobody else can see.

It makes you question your sanity. It makes you isolate. It makes you wonder if something deeper is wrong.

And the truth is? Sometimes something is wrong. But sometimes… it’s just menopause.

That’s the part no one tells you. Every new ache, every flutter in your chest, every moment you can’t remember why you walked into a room—it all starts to feel like a question.

Am I okay? Is this normal? Is this how it starts to end?

Menopause had me staring down my own mortality in the quietest ways. Not all at once. But in tiny, unnerving moments.

But I kept waking up. I kept rising. And I started to see that maybe this wasn’t the end of me— but the becoming of me.

In the early days of perimenopause, I fired two doctors.

The first told me my back spasms, shoulder pain, and that raging right hip were all due to age and arthritis. She said I’d have to medicate my way through it.

I tried the chiropractors. They offered relief—until they didn’t.

One day, I went to yoga. My back hurt so badly, I sat near the back, leaned against the wall, legs crossed in easy seated pose, and let the tears fall.

Sharon, my friend and yoga instructor, walked over and placed a gentle weight on each of my shoulders. That single act brought my shoulders away from my ears—and I cried again, but this time, with relief.

I kept practicing yoga. I started getting massages. Whatever foolish ideas I had about self-care being indulgent or selfish got thrown out with that first doctor.

I used to struggle with self-care. A massage felt too luxurious. I could justify a pedicure—but a full-body massage? That felt decadent. Thank God for waning estrogen. Because I was finally able to wrangle those foolish ideologies into submission.

The second doctor—a young Black woman—dismissed my symptoms entirely.

I told her about the belly pain that would spike my blood pressure and give me headaches so bad I ended up in the ER. Twice.

When I called a telehealth doc and told him my numbers, he chuckled. Apologized and said he worked ER and was used to seeing blood pressure numbers well over 200. He told me to take another dose of my blood pressure meds and “try to relax.”

Try to relax.

Telling a perimenopausal woman whose anxiety is already on ten to “relax” is both insensitive and performative.

I went back to sister doc. Told her I was gaining belly weight, and it wasn’t moving. This wasn’t the weight I was used to. It felt different.

She told me to meal prep.

Meal prep?

Meal prep for hormones on the retreat and waging an unholy war inside me?

She was fired that day.

Meal prep. Tuh.

This morning I took my blood pressure. 118 over 72.

Now listen. That number? That number felt like hope.

I hadn’t seen a number that good since I was off medication and under less stress.

But even with that perfect number, I didn’t feel good. My belly was unsettled. I was lightheaded. My sinuses were dry.

And I had that familiar panic: What’s wrong with me?

But then I remembered my hip. The one that used to ache.

I remembered how bad it got. And how, over time, it passed.

That was my reminder: This, too, shall pass.

Not because I’m ignoring it. But because I’m learning to listen.

I used to eat whatever I wanted. And for a while, keto worked. Then it didn’t.

Sugar used to be my friend. Then she betrayed me with hot flashes and bloating. Stress used to keep me sharp. Now it burns through my gut like acid.

So I had to change. Not because of a diet. But because my body demanded a new relationship.

The longest relationship I’ve ever had is with food. And menopause forced us into therapy.

Now I eat for comfort. But not for numbing. I eat to feel supported. But not stuffed. I listen. I adjust. I rest.

Speaking of rest.

Rest became rebellion.

When I stopped apologizing for it. When I stopped trying to earn it. When I stopped performing productivity to prove I was still valuable.

That’s when I started becoming someone new.

Menopause didn’t just take. It gave. It gave me compassion. Boundaries. Embodiment.
And clarity.

Some relationships couldn’t come with me. And that was a grief and a gift all its own.

But what was born in me? Was a woman who doesn’t abandon herself anymore.

Eventually I stopped seeing my symptoms as betrayal. And started seeing them as my body begging for care. Begging for slowness. Begging for a new kind of rhythm.

Not punishment. Just a new contract.
One where I don’t ignore her anymore.

And so today, I made tea. Ginger. A pinch of turmeric and black pepper. Cinnamon. A spoon of ghee. Lemon. Just a little honey.

Because sometimes the remedy isn’t in the pill. It’s in the pause. It’s in the listening. It’s in the cup you make for yourself when nobody else knows what your body feels like.

This season of our lives invites us to listen to our bodies closely, seek out competent medical help and true community. It invites us to tune in to our bodies in a way we might have never done before. Our bodies have supported us our whole lives… and now in this season, she needs intentional support so she can keep us healthy, active and well as we continue on our journey.

That’s the tea. And this? This is our collective story.

Thanks for joining me.
Until next time—may the tea warm you and time on the side porch soothe the soul.