Colleen Dilthey Thomas
It’s currently 3:46 a.m. I got into bed at 11 p.m., positively exhausted. Did I sleep? No, but I can tell you what I have done. I’ve scratched my head until I thought I would see blood under my fingernails. I have turned on three fans at full blast, stripped off my clothes, and dug through my husband’s dresser for a tank top. I thought about when I worked at a bagel shop in 1995, and a guy came in at 6 a.m. and ordered a dozen chocolate chip babies. Then I started laughing about that man, and tears ran down my face, quickly turning into sad tears, because that was 30 years ago. Unfortunately, I stopped counting, but I think I’ve gone to the bathroom at least four times. And, yes, I’ve continued to slug Diet Coke all damn night. It’s the one thing keeping me sane, mind your business. The caffeine isn’t the problem. It’s the fact that I am 47. That I am smack in the thick of the hell we call perimenopause, and it’s a bunch of BS.
Of course, I could spend the rest of my night reminiscing about being 41 weeks pregnant with my 10 lb 5 oz baby that caused me to have carpal tunnel syndrome so badly that I practically stood to sleep. Those were the days, friends. Or perhaps a few hours of doomscrolling. I love to look at the influencers who think I don’t know they put a dishtowel under their boobs when they get out of a cold shower because adjusting to room temperature feels like entering the fires of hell, and the sweat pours from the undercarriage like the devil’s tears. I know they’re all a bunch of liars and frosting Lume under their c-Section scars like a layer cake. They want me to believe that they don’t lie awake at night contemplating suffocating their partner whose snores echo in their itchy ears hour after hour after hour. We’re all here at the precipice of a nervous breakdown, wondering why the hell they canceled My So Called Life after just one season?!?! It’s maddening. But at least we’re here together. What about our poor mothers?
In 2026, we’re all living this nightmare together because we all talk about it all damn day long. Our husbands, kids, friends, coworkers, and the guy at the gas station know what’s happened, and they also know when to walk away. In the 1980s and 1990s, our mothers would never talk about “the change.” If they got really lucky, Phil Donahue or Sally Jesse Raphael might have talked about getting a bit older and getting a sassy new haircut, but that’s as far as they went. Glamour, Cosmopolitan, and Redbook offered quizzes, but who had enough money for subscriptions to all of those? By the time you got to read the months-old issue at the OBGYN’s office, someone had already circled the answers. Everyone had the same outcome. You’re perfectly normal. Smile. Have a wine cooler and a Virginia Slim and relax.
No mainstream media would dare tell our moms that those wind suits with the turtlenecks underneath and Keds were going to cook them from the inside out. They weren’t informed about raging hormones or the unbelievable urge to, say, knock over an entire bookshelf and walk away. It’s not like they would tell their friends, either. Those moms didn’t show weakness, and a period that lasted for 38 straight days was surely for losers. The closest they had to explaining perimenopause was Kathy Bates’ breakdown in Fried Green Tomatoes.
Our moms sat in silence, stewing. At my house, my mother exploded one afternoon and threw the entire contents of my brothers’ room out of a second-story window. All of it. And we just sat and watched in horror and a bit of awe. She’s a very small lady. That day, she had the strength of Hercules. Back then, I thought she was crazy. Today, I’d let it all fly if I didn’t think my kids would post me on TikTok. Then again, they wouldn’t want anyone to know, so I am probably safe. Unless, of course, there was potential for monetization and clout. That might get them off the couch. But I digress.
My mom had a bit of a break with reality because there was no one to guide her. There was no one to guide any of our mothers. Quite frankly, some of us are darn lucky we survived. We’re so much more knowledgeable today, and for that, I am truly grateful. Living in a time where we can speak openly about our lives and our bodies without shame or fear of judgment is incredible. Our moms are tough cookies. They did it all on their own with a smile on their faces and Hamburger Helper on the stove. Even if they did have the occasional breakdown, our moms walked so our hormones could run right into the back of some punk’s car yelling, “Towanda!” Thank you ladies. You are the real VIPs.
Colleen Dilthey Thomas is a seasoned freelance writer and mother of four — three boys and one girl — who specializes in parenting, family life, and humor writing. With more than a decade of experience, she has contributed to leading outlets including POPSUGAR, HuffPost, INSIDER, Her View From Home, Baby Chick, and others. A Listen to Your Mother St. Louis alum and featured humorist, Colleen blends personal experience with relatable storytelling to offer parents both practical advice and comic relief. Her work resonates with readers seeking authenticity, empathy, and a little laughter in the chaos of raising kids.
