Menopause and Brain Fog: Why I Felt Like I Was Losing My Mind

At some point in my late forties, my brain decided to retire early. It didn’t give notice. It just quietly packed its bags and left me there, standing in the middle of a room, staring at an object I used to know the name of, unable to speak.

I knew something was off when I started losing words. Simple ones. Like “chair.” I asked my husband to “move the thing you put your ass on,” and he stared at me like I had suffered a mild stroke. And maybe I had, in a hormonal sense. Because what came next was a slow, humiliating unraveling I never saw coming.

No one warns you that menopause might feel like early-onset dementia. They talk about hot flashes and mood swings, but no one says, “By the way, you might forget how to think.”

Woman struggling with brain fog- Pinterest collage.

Jump to:

The Brain Fog That Stole My Life
Noise, Chaos, and the Broken Autocorrect in My Brain
What Doctors Told Me
How to Talk to Your Doctor (When You Feel Like You're Losing Your Mind)
What Helped Me Get My Brain Back
Am I the Only One Who Feels This Way?
I’m Still Here
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The Brain Fog That Stole My Life

Before perimenopause, I was sharp. Fast. Capable. I could manage tasks, juggle deadlines, cook dinner while answering emails, and remembering a grocery list. I wasn’t perfect, but I was functional. Then it all went to trash, to put it mildly.

Suddenly, I couldn’t follow conversations. I’d forget the second half of a sentence while I was still speaking the first half. Words disappeared. Focus dissolved. Every decision felt like a mountain. Chicken or fish? Work or nap? Leave the house or stay curled up in a ball until 2029?

I couldn’t keep up with my work. I was exhausted all the time, but not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. It was a mental collapse, like my brain had run a marathon in high heels and finally said, “No more.”

Eventually, I quit my corporate job. Not because I wanted to. Because I physically could not meet the demands anymore. Tasks that used to be automatic now required superhuman effort. I couldn’t fake my way through meetings. I couldn’t process instructions. I was drowning in noise, in details, in my own inability to function. And I hated the commute.

Noise, Chaos, and the Broken Autocorrect in My Brain

It wasn’t just the forgetting. It was the overwhelm, the way every sound, smell, and human interaction suddenly felt like it was being hurled at me with a megaphone and a baseball bat. I had days when I couldn’t handle going outside.

The minute I stepped into the world, my senses went into full-blown rebellion. Sirens, car horns, someone talking too loudly into their phone, instant shutdown. Crowds made my skin crawl. Bright lights in stores made me dizzy.

Perfume counters felt like chemical warfare. Even the hallway in my apartment building, someone frying something every single day with the apartment door open, could send me running for the safety of my home like it was a shelter.

I didn’t have anticipatory anxiety. I wanted to go for a walk, to run errands, to live like a normal human. But the moment I stepped out, I was hit with this wave of sensory chaos that left me hot, breathless, dizzy, and desperate to flee.

And then there was the… autocorrect.

You know how your phone sometimes autocorrects “hi” to “hiccup”? Imagine that, but it’s your brain. I’d want to say “bathroom” and instead, my brain served me any other word that started with B. Banana. Button. Brussels sprout. I started talking in sound effects and vague descriptions.

“Can you hand me that... thing? The hot... whistler... pot?”
(Kettle. The word was kettle, people!)

Eventually, I gave up and just started miming like I was playing charades with life. My brain felt like a browser with 37 tabs open, 5 frozen, and the music playing somewhere but I had no idea which one. It wasn’t cute. It was terrifying.

What Doctors Told Me

When I first tried to explain what was happening to me, I was met with polite nods, furrowed brows, and the kind of medical gaslighting that feels like a warm cup of “you’re just stressed.” “It’s probably anxiety.” “That’s normal for your age.” “Maybe try an antidepressant?”

That was the script. No one put things together. No one suggested hormone replacement therapy. No one mentioned that brain fog, forgetfulness, sensory sensitivity, and cognitive decline could be part of menopause.

Instead, I was offered SSRIs, which I refused to take as I wasn’t depressed. I wasn’t anxious. I was hormonally fried. And it was not only this symptom, I had some other million of them that the doctors ignored.

How to Talk to Your Doctor (When You Feel Like You're Losing Your Mind)

Getting help for menopause symptoms can feel like trying to explain quantum physics to a brick wall. But you can prepare, and you deserve to be taken seriously.

Before the appointment:

Track your symptoms and how they affect daily life
Make a list of what you’ve already tried
Be specific: what’s not working

What to say:

“I’m struggling with memory and focus. I think it’s hormonal.”
“I want to talk about hormone therapy options, not just antidepressants.”
“Can we look at estradiol, progesterone, and possibly testosterone?”

Red flags (walk out):

“It’s just aging.”
“This is normal. Nothing to worry about.”
“Let’s try an SSRI and see how it goes.”
“We don’t treat menopause here.”

A good doctor will listen, validate your symptoms, and explore treatment options with you. If not, the common sense would be to refer you to a menopause specialist.

What Helped Me Get My Brain Back

I didn’t magically wake up one day and feel sharp again. There was no “aha” moment with a single fix. It took experimenting, failing, tweaking, a slow climb back to something that resembled functioning, and a lot of time.

Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) was my foundation. Estradiol helped with mood and baseline energy, plus, it resolved many of my other symptoms. Micronized progesterone gave me deep, meaningful sleep and protection to my endometrium. But it wasn’t the whole solution.

Testosterone was the spark. It brought back my ambition, drive, and mental sharpness. I felt awake again.

Routines, systems, and lists became my scaffolding. I no longer rely on memory. I use calendars, notes apps, and daily checklists. It’s not glamorous, but it keeps me grounded.

Sleep was non-negotiable. Once I started sleeping through the night, everything else improved.

Am I the Only One Who Feels This Way?

If you’ve been reading this and thinking, “Wow… this sounds a little unhinged. Should I be worried?”, you’re not alone. I thought the same thing when it was happening to me.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t mental illness. This is what happens when your brain is running on fumes because your hormones dropped off a cliff, and no one told you to expect it.

Perimenopause and menopause are brutal for some women. And the symptoms are real: losing words, decision fatigue, sensory overload, and brain fog so bad you think you have early-onset dementia.

I’m not broken. You’re not broken. We’ve just been misinformed, and left to figure it out alone.

Want a little extra validation? Women everywhere are saying the same things in private. Just open Reddit, or any social media platform and you will see the same:

“I forgot the words I knew all my life.”
“I couldn’t follow conversations at work.”
“I thought I was going crazy.”

You’re not crazy. You’re going through a biological transition that medicine barely bothers to explain. And you’re doing it while running a household, holding a job, being a partner, and trying to remember what you walked into the kitchen for. So no, you’re not the exception. You are the evidence.

I’m Still Here

Menopause didn’t just make me foggy. It made me question who I was. It forced me to mourn the sharp, reliable, quick-thinking version of myself, and then rebuild something new from the wreckage.

And while I still have moments where I forget things, or I act like I have ADHD, I no longer feel lost in my own mind. I fought my way back. Not because I’m strong. But because no one else was going to do it for me.

If you’re reading this and thinking, “This is me…” remember: You are not broken. You are not stupid. You are not alone. There is help, and you deserve every ounce of it.