2019 was a pretty banner year for me. I was 44 and at the top of my game as a blogger, content creator, and influencer. I also felt on top of my game as a grown-ass woman.
In 2019, my life was pretty great.
Since quitting my day job in December 2017, each year of Wardrobe Oxygen was an improvement on the last. In 2019 alone, I was published in The Washington Post, quoted in the New York Times, and featured on the Today Show. I traveled coast to coast with fashion and beauty brands, signed a contract to be a model and ambassador for a popular apparel label, was a guest on several podcasts, and was scheduled to speak at a large and respected conference in my industry the following spring.
The previous year, a personal trainer slid into my DMs and offered three free months in exchange for sharing my experience on Instagram. Those three months continued into 2020, providing me with the strongest body and relationship with my body that I'd had my entire life. With my gained confidence, I gained followers on Instagram and pageviews on the blog.
Wardrobe Oxygen was doing so well that my husband didn't have to go back to work and continued to be a stay-at-home dad while also being my photographer, a travel companion for out-of-town events, a yoga instructor, and managing a large multi-bed plot at our community garden. Our life was full of time outdoors, travel, trying new restaurants, concerts and music festivals, and spending time in our community.
Our daughter was doing well in elementary school, socially and educationally. She was funny and creative and confident and a blast to hang out with. We as a family really enjoyed spending time together.
Thanks to Wardrobe Oxygen, we had reduced or free travel, meals, and accommodation as a family, couple, and me alone. I visited places I had always dreamed of seeing, feeling so strong, so connected, and seeing several options for our future.
2020 was looking to be even better than 2019
In January 2020, I flew to Palm Springs with my sister and best friend, where we rented a house for a few days before heading to San Diego. There, I attended a multi-day conference and event for the apparel brand, for which I was a model and ambassador. There were multi-story posters of me wearing their clothing all over the conference center; I was in the presentation videos and the spring catalog. Strangers were stopping me, asking me to take a selfie with them. I was there with other brand ambassadors who had become friends over the years, and we had so much fun together.
February 2020, I went to New York Fashion Week with a fellow influencer come friend. Traveling together for the first time, we had a blast and became closer friends. While in NYC, we dined one night with a writer and podcaster friend who had me on her show the previous year, and I had drinks with the editor of an online magazine for Gen X women who wanted to work together in the coming year. 2020 was looking to be even better than 2019.
Back home, I attended a spring fashion show hosted by a high-end department store where, in attendance, was a Real Housewife, two local newscasters, a few fellow influencers, and the department store's top customers. This included a successful and philanthropic woman who recognized me from social media. I recognized her jacket from the label whose conference I had attended the month prior.
I greeted her and asked if her jacket was from that label. She said yes and then realized she “knew” me and we decided to grab seats next to each other for the show.
A fellow “certain age” influencer I knew casually showed up 15 minutes later, and by this time, the woman in the same jacket I owned and I were practically besties. I greeted the influencer and introduced her to my new friend. She was not interested at all and invited me to sit with her instead.
I shared that I already had a seat. While the seat next to me was taken, the seat next to my new friend was not. The influencer instead chose a seat on the corner near me, close enough for sharing facial expressions, and mouthed, “Love that!” and “I want this,” but not close enough for conversation, which my new friend and I continued. I loved going solo to events like this and sparking up friendships with strangers.
This fashion show had a catered lunch and also a marketplace of sorts, with different tables, booths, and vendors. One of the vendors was Peloton; my new friend shared she had a Peloton and it was utterly transformative. I had been feeling I needed a new physical challenge and add more cardio. I gave my contact info to the Peloton rep and texted my husband what he thought about us getting a Peloton.
Unexpectedly preparing for lockdown…
We ordered the Peloton that following Monday, March 9th. And we all remember what went down that Friday, March 13, 2020. As luck would have it, we ordered that Peloton at such the perfect time; it arrived the following week. We awkwardly all had on masks and gloves, and every window opened as delivery people carried in the steel bike body and the separate monitor and then raced outside to yell information on how to assemble it and the number to jot down to call if we encountered any issues.
Still, on a high from over two years of lifting weights five mornings a week, the Peloton was super fun and easy to incorporate into my lifting gallon jugs of Elmer's Glue for slime and makeshift hand weights. I rode the Peloton like a weight machine, standing up and sticking out my butt and cranking up the resistance. My PRs would blow my slim and strong friends out of the water, making me find even more connection with my body and with that, confidence.
My husband was also burning energy and Lockdown frustration with the Peloton and the newly-acquired free weights stalked until restocked at Dick's. We worked out together and worked in his community garden plot together, and had some of the best sex of our relationship.
Lockdown was like a funhouse mirror.
But then things started getting funhouse mirror weird. Warped and unfamiliar and uncomfortable. The house felt way too small, our priorities too different, and, in some ways, I felt like a stranger in my body and mind. Then the next minute I'd be revisiting, right down to how things felt and smelled, me when I was the same age as my daughter.
The Peloton made my back hurt, my knees hurt, and it became less appealing to change out of lounge sweats to Peloton sweats and hop in the saddle. My husband saw it all as excuses as he got even more into fitness. As the world opened, we found our views on how to handle it differed greatly and caused many arguments and personal self-doubt.
I used to speak at conferences without rehearsed lines. I loved meeting strangers and made friends everywhere I went. I was never at a loss for words, whether it was telling an entertaining story or writing my feelings in a journal or on Wardrobe Oxygen. But I found myself struggling to look people in the eye, being incredibly shy, cutting off thoughts and conversations, feeling as though no one was interested, and I was sucking too much oxygen out of the room.
Each time things seemed to improve, I would reinjure myself, or Google would make a new update causing me to freak out about ad revenue, or a brand would ghost me, or our daughter would come home from school crying or sullen, or my mom would give me a guilt trip, or my husband would shut down one of my ideas.
I kept getting injured, and my husband seemed to be getting so short-tempered and so annoying that I gritted my teeth when he breathed too loudly. You'd never know it from the literal highlights reel on Instagram of our 2021 trip to Fire Island, but after it, we seriously considered living apart.
The internet yet again saved me, and I found folks who felt the same and shared solutions. Couples therapy and CBT and HRT and SSRIs and creams and pellets and pills and teas and poultices. Some I ignored, some I regrettably tried, and some helped. But I still was missing and miserable. I went to my OB/GYN. I began seeing this woman around 2018 and liked her. That said, I had only seen her a couple of times for routine checks and my last appointment was PrePan.
She remembered me. We discussed the upcoming anniversary sale for a mutually loved department store as she checked for lumps and once I was covered and upright, asked what I wanted to discuss. I shared what I was experiencing, which were multiple symptoms that are regularly associated with perimenopause.
Desperately seeking understanding.
She shared she had gone through menopause very recently. She, too, experienced a racing mind and an inability to fall asleep or stay asleep. She took blood, and we scheduled a follow-up appointment to go over the blood work with the doctor in the practice expert in hormones and perimenopause treatment.
The following week, I returned to the practice to meet with the perimenopause doctor, another woman who shared she, too, had already gone through menopause. She said my bloodwork looked normal, no issues and asked me to again share what I was experiencing.
By this time, I was seriously wondering if this was me just being melodramatic. I'm being lazy, I am expecting too much, I am the problem, I need to get my shit together and quit whining.
The perimenopause doctor said she didn't think I needed hormones. Regarding my brain fog, inability to form sentences though I know the words, joint pain, 3am sweaty sheet wakeups, marital problems, and more, she gave me a prescription for 150mg of Wellbutrin XL, a suggested brand of lube, the title of a book, and recommended we again try couples therapy.
In her office parking lot, I immediately searched the book title on Amazon and downloaded the Audible version without reading much about it. Come to find out, it was a book about assertive speaking in business and personal relationships.
Hitting too close to home.
My dad dealt with depression for decades. When he was on Wellbutrin, he decided to take himself off cold turkey, and my mom and sister found him seizing on the kitchen floor. And now I am considering taking this same drug?
I waited a couple of weeks, figured out what the hell this existence sucked already, and began taking the Wellbutrin prescription. It likely was a placebo effect, but that first week I felt fantastic. However, that first week was also one of the first times I could get away from my house and family for a substantial amount of time, helping a friend clear out her parent's house. We were without spouses in a separate state. We did manual labor, ate girl dinners, and watched Queen Charlotte, and it was good for my soul and sanity.
I didn't notice when the Wellbutrin really began to work until one day, I forgot to take it in the morning and took it in the afternoon on an empty stomach just before I took an Uber to an influencer event. I practically had a panic attack in the backseat of that Volkswagon; I felt so jittery and anxious. Once I had some food and water, I noticed how I felt stable and more centered. While Wellbutrin helped me feel less chaotic, it didn't cure any of the symptoms that sent me to my OB/GYN in the first place.
The University of Search Engine saves the day.
The internet educated me again. I learned about the North American Menopause Society and found a NAMS-certified provider in my area. While not covered by my insurance, the money would have to be over an hour of an expert's time as she listened, understood, confirmed, empathized, normalized, and offered solutions.
I stayed on Wellbutrin but began also wearing an estrogen patch on my belly, rubbing testosterone cream into the back of my calf, and swallowing white gel footballs of progesterone every evening before bed. I even got a metal tube of more estrogen to apply to my ladyparts. For the first time in my life, I experienced well-woman visits where I lay under a quilt instead of a paper sheet, consent was requested before each action was made, and utensils were warmed and used with care. I didn't realize how much these little things could make me feel more human.
But I was not the same human I was before Lockdown. My job, my industry, wasn't the same either. My relationship wasn't the same, and my daughter was no longer a tween but now an independent high schooler. Everything was new and challenging and changing.
When it rains, it pours.
Just as I'd have a grip, the cliff would crumble from under my fingers. In the summer of 2023, my vision seemed weird. It reminded me of when a camera would film half in water, half in sky and I'd occasionally have white flashes in my periphery. I went to my ophthalmologist and went through a routine eye exam, but nothing was found. We chalked it up to migraines, which I had in a different form before I had my daughter and likely another symptom of perimenopause.
But it kept bothering me, and my gut said it wasn't something to ignore. I went out of network and out of pocket to a retina specialist who performed the same test and came to the same conclusions, but also trusted her gut and pulled out a scope to get a closer look. That was a Wednesday; that Saturday of Labor Day Weekend, she booked me for early morning emergency retina surgery. I ended up with a sclera buckle on my right eyeball and required several in-office sessions to laser both eyes. My vision is forever affected by the experience, which is why I now wear glasses.
On the last Friday of that very same month, my mom died unexpectedly. She was 80, but that previous weekend, she went to a local cafe and danced to a live band. My mom lived two blocks away, my sister a half mile from us. We were very close, saw each other at least once a week, traveled together, and dealt with illness, moving, and the pandemic over the past years.
I was made executor, though my sister was equally involved. We quickly realized that our mom's preparations for the end were inadequate, and even though she wasn't wealthy, we were in over our heads.
The bills for the eye surgery began arriving, and I found my insurance did not deem the procedure necessary, only covering a few thousand. At the same time, with my mom's accounts frozen and her estate in probate, I was charging thousands for memorial service catering, moving companies, painters and contractors to prepare the house for sale, and the estate lawyer we finally hired to help us.
The Wellbutrin wasn't cutting it. I still struggled to speak, and felt too overwhelmed and burned out to write or manage the tasks for my mom's estate. So I went to see the medication management provider with my therapist's practice, and she increased the dosage. When that didn't cut it, she suggested adding Lexapro to the cocktail. This seemed to help, though, at this point, I didn't even know what I was trying to fix. I was completely lost.
Uncomfortably numb.
I had become a numb zombie. The Meds Manager recommended I now switch to Prozac. My dad also took Prozac; I know he also tried it after Lexapro. I think that was the one that helped him get out of bed but didn't help in the bedroom. And now I am thinking of also taking it.
Who had I become? I never liked taking medication and feared being reliant on it. And now I was swallowing multiple pills multiple times a day, having prescriptions at the pharmacy or in the mailbox multiple times a month. But I also realized pre-med Alison was miserable, and I was happier as a Lexapro zombie than an unmedicated mess. I switched to Prozac.
Third time's the charm?
My mom's estate was finally closed and complete with an inheritance large enough to pay off these years of medical and estate debt. And the Prozac kicked in, and I realized why my dad stuck with and took Prozac until his passing. For the first time since that banner year of 2019, I feel as though my body, brain, and self are on the same team. We may need coaching and serious practice, but at least we're back on the field together.
Business-wise, I'm still not back. I think I have burnout, but when you're the sole provider for a family, it's not like you can take a hiatus or sabbatical or short-term disability or even fall off the grid for a period of time. I'm trying to let my mud settle so my water runs clear so I can figure out what my next move should be. Because right now things feel very muddy, though at least the sun is shining. And because the sun is shining, I have more hope of clear streams.
Why I am sharing all of this with all of you.
What has kept me trying to find a solution, pushing past my personal biases and fears, is because of other women who shared their experiences online. We are all different, life hits us all differently and we may not find support and solace in our immediate community. But that doesn't mean what you are experiencing is weird or wrong or insignificant. That by sharing this journey I've been on the past few years may help at least one of you feel less alone, more hopeful, or find a potential solution or more positive journey.
Being a woman is no joke, and it's even harder when your body and brain become strangers. Social media can make us think we're the only one facing this, or that we're not handling it as well as others. But social media can also open eyes, create community, and guide us towards solutions and give us hope. Thank you for giving that to me, and I hope I can return the favor.
