The Dragon Inside Me: Perimenopause Rage and What Women Carry

I recently watched an online summit on menopause, and something the host said stopped me in my tracks. She talked about perimenopause rage.

Not moodiness. Not irritability. Not “being hormonal” in that dismissive way people often describe women’s emotions.

Rage.

And I felt my whole body exhale.

Phew. I’m not the only one.

My rage crept in slowly about two years ago. At first, I thought it was just a lack of sleep. I was tired. I was stretched thin. I was mothering, managing, holding things together, and trying to function like a normal person on very little rest.

But last year, it became harder to ignore.

I found myself shouting at my son in ways that scared me. Not because I did not love him. Not because I wanted to hurt him. But because something would rise in me so quickly, so intensely, that I barely recognised myself.

There were moments when I had to clench my fists and hold them tight, riding the rage through my body so I would not take it out on my child. That became my way of controlling it. I would grip my hands, breathe through the wave, and wait for it to pass.

Once it moved through me, I could either carry on or excuse myself to calm down.

But the truth is, it frightened me.

Because this did not feel like ordinary anger.

Anger has a reason. It has a shape. You can usually trace it back to something: a crossed boundary, an unfair comment, a situation that pushed you too far.

This felt different.

It was visceral. Wild. Almost primal.

It felt as if something ancient had woken up inside me. As if the rage was not only mine, but the rage of women before me. Women who swallowed their fury. Women who carried too much. Women who had no language for what was happening in their bodies, their marriages, their homes, their lives.

It was a “fuck this shit” kind of rage.

Fuck the burden of raising children while carrying the mental load of everyone’s needs.

Fuck the pressure of being a mother, wife, daughter, caretaker, emotional regulator, house manager, and still somehow expected to have a sexy body and not look old.

Fuck the patriarchal bullshit that tells women to stay desirable, stay calm, stay kind, stay useful, stay small.

All of it rolled into one fireball. Frustration. Anger. Despair. Exhaustion.

And somewhere underneath it all, a quiet but terrifying thought: What if I just walked out and lived my own life?

I'm sure my mother contemplated it too.

She was in her mid-forties when things went downhill for her. Back then, menopause was only just beginning to be talked about in mainstream media. I remember watching a local TV documentary about it. When they read out the symptoms — rage, weight gain, hot flushes, brain fog, night sweats — I knew.

My mother went through this.

However, there was very little information available at the time. So little support. So little compassion. Women were expected to suffer quietly and keep functioning. Keep cooking. Keep mothering. Keep smiling. Keep enduring.

Years later, I found myself standing in a version of her experience.

When I noticed I was being short with my children more often than I wanted to admit, I knew it was time to get help. No more shame. No more self-blame. Help.

So I made an appointment with my gynaecologist. I told her everything: the rage, the anxiety, the irritability, the hot flushes, the night sweats, the brain fog, the broken sleep.

She prescribed me progesterone pills and estradiol gel.

After a month, I felt a shift. Less anxiety. Less irritability. More calm. Fewer hot flushes. Fewer night sweats. Less brain fog.

It did not make me a perfect mother. It did not remove every difficult emotion. It did not turn me into some serene, glowing version of myself who speaks only in gentle tones and drinks herbal tea in linen. But it gave me space.

Space between the feeling and the reaction. And sometimes, that space is everything.

The rage still peeks out occasionally, especially in the morning after a rough night’s sleep. But it is no longer as consuming as it once was. It no longer feels like it has complete ownership over me.

And maybe most importantly, I no longer see it as proof that something is wrong with me.

I see it as information.

A signal.

A flare from a body that has been asking for attention.

A message from a woman who has been carrying too much for too long.

Even with all the tools we have — awareness, therapy, coaching, hormones, nervous system work, breathing practices, good intentions — we still slip up sometimes.

We are human. We make mistakes.

And our children do not need perfect parents. They need parents who can repair. Parents who can say, “I’m sorry I shouted. That wasn’t okay.” Parents who show them that emotions can be felt without being used as weapons. Parents who take responsibility without drowning in shame.

That distinction matters.

Feeling rage is not the same as harming someone.

Having a storm inside you does not grant you the permission to destroy the people around you. But it also does not mean you should pretend the storm is not there. We need to start talking about this more.

Women need to know that help exists. We need to speak to our doctors, our friends, our partners, and our sisters. We need to ask for more rest before our bodies force us to stop. We need updated information, better education, and much less shame around what happens to us during perimenopause and menopause.

We need to stop treating women’s suffering as a private inconvenience.

And we need to stop expecting women to be endlessly understanding while their own bodies are screaming.

Because the rage may still live inside me. There is still a dragon in there.

Some days, I imagine releasing her.

Letting her roar at the people who never supported me. The family members who left others to carry the burden of ageing parents. The parents who targeted us because we stood up against bullying. The so-called friends who smiled in public and gossiped in private. The frienpreneurs who pretended to cheer you on while quietly hoping you would fail.

There is a part of me that wants justice.

A part of me that wants to call everything out.

A part of me that wants to burn through the lies and say, “No more.”

And honestly?

That part of me is not wrong.

But, I am learning that rage does not always need to destroy.

Sometimes rage shows us where our boundaries were crossed.

Sometimes rage is the part of us that still believes we deserve better.

Sometimes rage is not here to ruin our lives, but to return us to ourselves.

So perhaps the question is not, “How do I get rid of this rage?”

Perhaps the better question is:

What is this rage asking me to protect?

My energy does not need to be wasted on people who have already shown me who they are. Karma can deal with them. Life has a way of returning things to their rightful place.

My fire can go somewhere better.

Maybe I can use it to speak up for women who are still suffering in silence.

Maybe I can use it to create safer spaces for victims.

Maybe I can use it to care for animals, support underprivileged children, help the elderly, or contribute to causes that actually matter.

Maybe this rage, when understood, is not a curse.

Maybe it is fuel.

Maybe the dragon inside me was never here to destroy my life.

Maybe she came to remind me that I am still alive.

That I still care.

That I still have power.

And that I no longer have to swallow fire to keep everyone else warm. I hope you keep your fire alive and use it wisely.