There's a trembling that begins beneath the deep surface. You don't always notice it at first - like the faint shiver of an earthquake just beginning. It starts as something imperceptible, but then it rises. It rises until it shakes the very ground of your being, moving everything in its path.
You want to run. You want to escape - searching frantically for exits to flee the overwhelming feeling. But there are no exits. Not this time. This time you must stand still. You must face the tremor, the trigger, the truth.
When Anxiety Has No Name
Growing up, we didn't have a name for this feeling. Anxiety wasn't something we diagnosed or discussed - it was simply part of life. An unspoken presence that drifted in and out like a shadow, without recognition or fanfare. Yet, looking back, there was no shortage of things to be anxious about.
We lived in households ruled not by reason, but by consequence. Where too many tears could get you told "If you don't stop crying I'll give you something to cry about" A phrase that still echoes in many of my generations' memories. There was one brief visit from my grandmother, who flew halfway around the world to see her daughter and meet her grandchildren. She brought with her a suitcase full of proprietary and English expectations; children were to be seen and not heard. But we - free ranging kiwi kids - were barefoot, wild, climbing on the furniture and unbothered by the decorum she held dear, her visit to our home was consequently a short-lived one.
In our home, discipline came in the form of a wooden paddle shaped like a whale. It was engraved with the words "Spare the rod, spoil the child". And other verses meant to justify the blows. In other homes it was often the jug cord, or a belt, kept in plain view as a silent reminder of the price of disobedience.
The Normalisation of Fear
School offered no safe haven. There, it was the strap or the cane. Even in Year 2, I remember the ruler - weaponised and wielded with precision "Bend down and touch your toes". Then a sharp sting across the backside. Misplaced fingers on a pen could earn a rap across the knuckles. A clip around the ear wasn't questioned - it was simply the way things were.
Personal boundaries didn't exist. The power dynamics flowed from adults to children like a current, and that current didn't stop at the school gates. It bled into the playground. The bullying didn't just come from peers - it was modelled by those who were meant to protect and guide us.
To think we once considered all this normal is like recalling life on another planet. Now we exist in a world of gentle parenting, of helicopter parents and conscious conversations. A world where feelings are named, validated, and explored. But back then? We were sent out the door in the morning and expected to return - hopefully in one piece - before dark.
We felt the fear - and we did it anyway. Often out of bravery, but more often simply because there was no alternative. Once you'd survived the worst of it, your skin grew thick. You buried the anxiety in some back corner of your mind, boxed it up for later - until later came.
The Reawakening of the Box
In adolescence those faint ripples of anxiety resurfaced - amplified by hormonal chaos. Just as the body was transforming, so too was the mind, stirring up emotions that had been left unresolved. For me, the shattering of our family unit came like a nuclear blast. What little stability I had dissolved in an instant.
That's when the need to run-away became overwhelming, and run-away I did, Again and again.
Now, years later, I find myself in another season of hormonal upheaval. Menopause. And like in adolescence, it is a time of transformation. Of disarray. And of reckoning. The old anxieties have surfaced once more, stirred up by neuroendocrine shifts that feel like aftershocks from a long-forgotten quake.
This time, however, there is a name. And an understanding.
The Science Behind the Storm
We now know that menopause, like adolescence and motherhood, is a time of profound neurological and hormonal change. The dance between oestrogen and progesterone - once elegant - is now erratic. These hormones affect neurotransmitters like serotonin, GABA, and dopamine, creating a landslide of emotional and physiological responses.
According to Dr. Mary Clare Hover, "We are in the zone of hormonal chaos."
It's not just mental. It's chemical. It's biological. It's real.
The shifting internal landscape leaves me feeling disorientated, as though I am navigating through a universe of unfamiliar constellations. And so I withdraw. I cocoon myself. I sense the metamorphosis underway, and I instinctively create space to let it unfold.
Because I know that, on the other side of this trembling terrain, there is something waiting.
The Emerging Self
The despair of the feeling of not being enough. The weight of early responsibility. The habits that once tried to fill the void of love and security - they are all resurfacing, to be examined, felt, and finally released.
This time is not an end. It is a beginning.
A chance to reshape neural pathways. To meet the self I buried beneath survival. To transform.
So I wait in this cocoon, amidst the chaos, amidst the shaking - because I know.
The brightest wings are born from the darkest transformation.
Namaste x
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