In February, my body crossed a line I didn’t know how to prepare for. Surgical menopause didn’t arrive as a single event; it arrived as a reckoning, layered with a complexity no one had fully warned me about. Looking back now, I realize I’d been moving through perimenopause for years, unknowingly carrying its subtle shifts, mood changes, fatigue, and my body changing in ways that I couldn’t pin down. I blamed stress or aging. I never realized that the quiet unraveling was hormonal. No one handed me a map. No one said, “This is what’s happening.” I learned to doubt myself instead.
There was the pain, pain I thought was from ovarian cysts, because I’ve lived with endometriosis for so long that I was used to it. I’d go in routinely, have cysts removed, and have endometriosis tissue scraped away. I assumed this pain was just another chapter in that familiar story. But it wasn’t.
My appendix was quietly enlarging, and no one caught it. The first ER visit, they noted it was enlarged, but dismissed it as normal for me. They sent me home. I kept planning surgery for my ovary, believing that was the source of the pain.
When I returned, my appendix had grown again. I was there to have my last ovary removed, and the surgeon on call didn’t want to remove my appendix. He said it was fine. However, my OB, Dr. Vendola, went above and beyond, advocating for me. He went to the main surgeon, who finally said, “Absolutely, this appendix needs to come out.” When the pathology came back, it showed it was on the verge of rupture. It could have killed me.
After surgery, the changes became impossible to ignore. My hair thinned in the shower drain, as it still does to this day. My reflection grew unfamiliar, as if the woman in the mirror was someone whose body was now writing its own rules. Weight settled differently. My emotions moved like tides, grief and tenderness arriving without warning. I wasn’t broken. I was reorganized without consent.
And all around me, silence. Menopause isn’t talked about openly. There were no instructions for when your body feels foreign, when you’re just trying to breathe through the day without unraveling. I found myself advocating in a system that often minimizes women’s pain and complexity.
Trying to speak about the things going on and the tsunami that I was carrying and fighting on the inside was not easy to articulate outwardly. I lived in hope that those around me every day would somehow know me enough to understand the absolute fight that I was in and, by some miracle, award me a little grace.
So I carry those scars, literal and emotional. The tenderness of healing, the rawness of realizing how easily I could have been dismissed into real danger. And I also carry the knowledge that I am learning, slowly, imperfectly, to stand up for myself. To trust my inner signals. To take up space as a woman whose body tells the truth, even when it’s inconvenient and doesn’t match what others feel is right for me.
In the midst of all the changes and the slow learning curve of listening to my body, I found a kind of sanctuary in the kitchen. It’s more than just a place to cook; it’s a space where every sense is invited to slow down and savor the moment.
When I bake for others, it’s like inviting them into a shared sensory experience. The kitchen fills with the warm, comforting scent of cinnamon and vanilla, wrapping around me like a soft blanket. You can hear the gentle crackle of bread crust cooling on the counter, the rhythmic whisk of batter, the soft thump of dough being kneaded. There’s the golden glow of the oven light, before it burned out, the sight of cinnamon rolls rising and turning a perfect shade of brown, and the feel of warm steam as you open the oven door.
Sharing these baked goods isn’t just about food; it’s about creating a moment of connection. It’s the way I offer comfort, a way of saying, “I see you, I care for you, and I want to share this piece of calm with you.” And for me, it’s grounding. It’s a way to soothe my nervous system, to bring myself back to the present moment when my mind wants to race ahead.
In those moments, I’m learning, slowly and gently, to listen to my body’s whispers instead of pushing through to exhaustion. My ADHD brain might still try to outrun me, might still have me chasing perfection, but here in the kitchen, surrounded by the scents and sounds of baking, I find a little more ease. I see a rhythm that calms my nervous system and reminds me that growth doesn’t have to be rushed.
That rhythm eventually carried me outside.
In the dead of winter, before anything green existed, my garden had already taken over my mind. My OCD latched onto it with precision and intensity. I drew it out on grid paper, squares and spacing measured down to inches. I used multiple apps, cross-referencing companion plants, soil needs, and sun exposure. I stood outside in the cold with a tape measure, pushing sticks into frozen ground, walking the lines again and again, because if I couldn’t see it, it wouldn’t connect. My brain needed the visual. Needed certainty. Needed order.
I had never planned anything like this before. And yet, I planned it relentlessly.
When spring finally came, it felt like watching something I had carried internally for months finally surface. I went out barefoot every day, toes pressing into cool soil, grounding myself with purpose and intention. Tomatoes climbed. Peas curled delicately around their supports. Strawberries hid low and sweet, something I didn’t know was considered a delicacy until I grew them myself. Flowers opened without asking for perfection, and gosh, were they beautiful. Peppers tried and were devoured by ridiculous slugs before they ever stood a chance. Even that felt honest.
I grew tomatoes with care and intention, but I didn’t keep most of them. I gave them away. There was something deeply fulfilling about handing someone food that came from time, preparation, and love. About nourishing others when my own body still felt unpredictable. About offering something steady when so much inside me wasn’t.
At one point, I decided impulsively and intensely, in true Niki fashion, to try canning for the first time. I went to the farmer’s market for what I thought would be half a bushel and came home with twenty-eight pounds of tomatoes. Only a few were mine. The rest were gathered, chosen, hauled home with purpose. I spent hours in the kitchen doing something I’d never done before, steam fogging the windows, sauce bubbling, jars clinking as they sealed. My nervous system was lit up, my focus absolute. It had to be done. And it was.
Now there are jars of tomato sauce lined up on my shelf, proof that sometimes my intensity builds something lasting.
I hope my kids see it. The effort. The care. The love is layered into small, ordinary acts. I hope they see this softer version of me. The one who grows things, gives them away, feeds people, stands barefoot in the dirt. I hope it plants something in them that they’ll carry forward into their own families. Something I couldn’t give them when they were younger, but can offer now.
And then, just as quietly as it arrived, the garden began to fade.
Leaves yellowed. Stems browned. What I had tended daily started to wilt, to thin, to retreat back into the earth. And instead of panicking, though I did feel the sense of loss initially, I noticed what it stirred in me. How familiar it felt. How honest.
Life doesn’t stay in bloom.
The seasons change whether we’re ready or not. Things we pour ourselves into end. Bodies shift. Energy wanes. What once needed daily attention asks instead for rest. Even in the wilting, there was beauty, muted, earthy, real. A different kind of presence. A reminder to stay with what is, instead of clinging to what was.
That season taught me something important-
that not everything that fades is failing, and not everything that goes quiet is lost. Sometimes all that’s required is trust that when the season passes, beauty will find its way back, and I will forever believe that.
By July, we took one of the most memorable and active trips thus far. Utah and Arizona, vast and breathtaking, are the kind of landscapes that stretch your sense of self. Red rock rising against endless sky. Heat radiates from the stone. Trails that demanded attention and respect.
We hiked. A lot. Sixty-eight miles in total. Long days on our feet, early mornings, tired legs, full hearts. It was exhilarating. I felt capable. Strong. Alive in my body in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
And then there was Angels Landing. Lord, was that a majestic yet terrifying beauty.
That hike asked everything of me.
Narrow chains, as in 18″ in some areas. Sheer drop-offs. Wind moving past my face. At times, my body was pressed so close to the rock that my cheek was nearly touching it, arms wrapped tight, fingers gripping stone as if it could anchor my fear. Anxiety surged hard and fast, my heart racing, my breath shallow, my mind screaming that this was too much. I had constant support, constant encouragement.
I had panic attacks on that mountain.
And I kept going.
Part of it was fear, yes. Fear of turning around, fear of going back down and failing, but there was something else, too. Determination. Stubborn resolve. A refusal to quit on myself in the middle of something that mattered. I didn’t want to be rescued from the experience. I wanted to live it, fully, honestly, even trembling.
When I reached the top, something cracked open.
I smiled. I laughed. I cried. All of it at once.
It was not easy, but I did it! I stayed present through fear instead of letting it define me. Because for that moment, standing on that summit, I felt expansive and small and deeply alive all at the same time.
What followed, what came later, was harder to reconcile. The way my body paid the price afterward. The way my hip slowly, insistently demanded attention, I had learned to override. The way movement eventually turned into limitation, and limitation into surgery.
But that doesn’t take away from what that trip was.
It was proof that I am capable of courage.
Proof that fear and determination can coexist.
Proof that I can meet myself at the edge and still choose to continue.
And even now, when my body asks for gentleness instead of endurance, I hold that memory close, not as something to repeat, but as something to honor.
Because I didn’t give up.
I didn’t turn back.
And I reached the top.
By October, it wasn’t just my body asking for care; it was my life refusing to pause long enough for it.
Getting to surgery was not simple. It wasn’t a clean decision followed by a clean timeline. It was weeks of trying to find the right doctor, advocating again, explaining again, starting again. Appointments. Imaging. Conversations that carried hope and then stalled. Finally, a surgery date, something to hold onto, only to learn I was considered too high risk. Too complex. Too many layers. Per the usual with my health.
So I had to start over. Again. All while still living my life.
October didn’t slow down just because my body needed repair. We hosted our annual Halloween party, nearly forty family members filling the house with noise, laughter, movement, and expectation. Decorations. Food. Planning. Smiling through pain. Making sure everyone felt welcomed and cared for, even while my own body felt unstable and unresolved.
There wasn’t space to fall apart. There rarely is.
And looming just beyond that was December, a family trip scheduled for December 21. Another commitment. Another thing I refused to let my body take away from me. So while I was navigating medical uncertainty, risk assessments, and the quiet fear of what if this never gets fixed, I was also packing mentally for travel, for memories, for showing up.
This was the hardest part, not the pain itself, but the waiting while carrying responsibility.
Knowing something is wrong. Knowing it needs to be addressed. And still having to function. Still having to host. Still having to plan. Still having to mother, partner, organize, and care.
There was grief in that. And anger. And exhaustion.
But there was also resolve.
I didn’t stop advocating. I didn’t walk away when things reset. I didn’t shrink myself to make the system more comfortable. I kept pushing because that is what I do, not through pain this time, but through process. Through paperwork. Through appointments. Through the emotional labor of being the one who has to hold everything together while asking for help, and I HATE asking for help.
The surgery itself wasn’t the end of it; you wouldn’t expect it to stop there.
It was the beginning of something else entirely.
Immediately after surgery, I knew something was wrong with my knee. Not soreness. Not post-op stiffness. Something deeper. Unstable. Wrong in a way my body recognized instantly. I said it out loud to the nurse, but beyond the ice, it was dismissed. More than once. I tried to explain the sensation, the way it didn’t feel connected the way it should, the way it hurt.
No one listened. For three weeks, I walked on a subluxed bone.
Every step carried instability I couldn’t name yet, but felt constantly. What I didn’t know at the time was that I had a posterior root tear in my meniscus and an MCL sprain, injuries caused by traction during surgery. My connective tissue, already compromised, couldn’t withstand the stress. My body paid the price for a system that didn’t account for that reality.
So, beyond the expected limitations of hip surgery, the careful movements, the restrictions, the guarded healing, I was also navigating entirely new injuries that no one had acknowledged. Pain layered on pain. Instability layered on recovery. Confusion layered on exhaustion.
The hardest part wasn’t just the physical damage. It was the dismissal.
Knowing something was wrong. Saying it clearly. And being unheard anyway. Again. And again.
When the truth finally surfaced, it wasn’t relief I felt first; it was anger. Grief. The sharp realization that I had been walking, compensating, adapting, and injuring myself further because my body’s warnings had been minimized.
This was never “just” about my knee.
It was about trust.
About the cost of not being believed.
About how often women, especially those with complex bodies, are expected to absorb harm quietly. I am over it.
I carried that weight while still healing. Still functioning. Still managing daily life. Still preparing for commitments already on the calendar. Still holding myself together when everything felt structurally unsound.
This wasn’t resilience as triumph. It felt like survival layered with restraint. And it changed me.
It taught me that advocacy doesn’t end once surgery is over, which I already knew. That listening to my body isn’t optional, it’s essential, especially as complex as mine is. That I am allowed to insist, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it disrupts timelines or expectations.
My body told the truth the entire time.
The system just wasn’t ready to hear it.
December didn’t arrive quietly; it gathered us.
On December 21, we traveled as a family, carrying more than luggage with us. We carried months of strain, healing bodies, unfinished recovery, and the unspoken understanding that time together matters more than timing ever will. I wasn’t fully healed, and I didn’t need to be. What mattered was being there, moving through days side by side, sharing space, laughter, stories, and the kind of moments that don’t ask anything of you except presence.
There were adventures woven through those days, the kind that settle into your bones long after they end. Walking together, exploring, pausing to take in beauty without rushing past it. Sitting with our grandparents, listening to stories that carry decades inside them. Watching the way generations overlap, hands reaching for hands, familiar voices filling the air, memories forming quietly in real time.
I noticed everything. The sound of laughter echoes down hallways. The warmth of shared meals. The way time seemed to soften when we were all together. Even my body felt different there, not healed, but held. Allowed to exist without needing to perform or push, or prove.
This trip didn’t erase what the year demanded of me. But it reminded me why I endured it.
It reminded me that life isn’t measured only in what we survive, but in what we experience fully. In the moments we show up for. In the stories we create together. In the memories our children will carry forward, and the time we’re still lucky enough to spend with those who came before us.
As 2025 came to a close, I didn’t feel finished; I felt connected.
Connected to my family.
Connected to my body in a new, more honest way.
Connected to the truth that even in years marked by pain, there can be extraordinary beauty.
This year taught me how to live inside myself, but December reminded me why that matters.
Because the greatest healing I experienced wasn’t found in a hospital room or a diagnosis or a plan. It was found in being together. In presence. In love that didn’t require me to be anything other than exactly who I was.
And that is what I carry forward.
Perfectly Imperfect 
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