Welcome,
I'm Skyler Liberty Rose and today's meditation is on the grief we can experience as part of moving through menopause.
I invite you to get comfortable.
If you'd like to close your eyes,
Please do so now.
If you'd rather keep them open,
Simply soften your gaze and let it settle somewhere still.
Let's begin with a deep breath in through the nose.
And a slow exhale through the mouth.
Once more,
Breathing in… And letting go.
Menopause often feels like a great unveiling.
Patterns and practices that have held us together for years can suddenly start to look different.
Coping mechanisms that we may have once relied upon are no longer quite as effective.
It can be a confronting time.
And as part of this unveiling,
There's a grief.
Grief for who we once were.
For versions of ourselves that we won't be again.
Sometimes for versions of ourselves that we hoped we would become,
But perhaps never did.
The plans that didn't happen.
The path we were sure we'd take.
The person we always assumed we'd have grown into by now.
This is very much grief,
Even though we're really taught to call it that.
There's no ceremony for it.
No one sends a card.
So it tends to go unspoken,
Carried internally.
If menopause is brought up in conversation,
It's usually focused on hormones and symptoms.
But the ache underneath is missed.
So let's give it some space here today.
Take a deep inhale.
Gently exhale.
Bring to mind,
If you can,
A version of yourself you've been grieving.
She might be someone you were,
Or someone you thought you'd become.
Allow the feeling to emerge without feeling the need to push it away.
Here's something I'd like you to consider.
Grief like this often carries a belief that the best of us is somehow behind us.
That the woman we used to be was more vibrant,
More capable,
More worthy of attention than the woman sitting here now.
I want you to question that belief because it isn't true.
Every version of you was whole in her own time.
Each one was doing the very best she could with what she knew and what she had.
Not one of them was a rehearsal for the real thing.
They were all the real thing.
And so are you,
Right now,
Exactly as you are.
Those earlier selves and even the ones you imagined and never became.
All carried you to this moment.
They are worthy of your thanks,
Not your judgement.
So take a moment to honour them.
To let them know they did their part and that they will always be part of your journey.
Your previous selves stay with you in everything they taught you.
Their courage.
Their strength.
And their resilience a part of you now.
As is their joy.
And the selves you imagined but never became.
They stay with you too.
The longing that shaped them is still yours to follow.
The form it takes now may be different.
But you can still be inspired to harness the energy of possibility.
Take an inhale.
Take an exhale.
Repeats after me.
I honour every version of myself,
The ones I was and the ones I imagined I'd be.
Any grief I feel is a measure of how deeply I have lived.
I am not a lesser copy of who I used to be.
I am whole right now.
I release the belief that my best days are behind me.
I am still unfolding and I trust where I am going.
Let those words settle into you with each breath.
Acknowledging and honouring the grief that can accompany menopause is a path to a more compassionate ageing experience.
Making space for the validity of your emotions allows them to move through you rather than settling in and hardening.
When we let ourselves grieve,
We free up room for what comes next.
So let the grief be here for as long as it needs to.
And know that you are not at the end of anything.
You are entering a season where you still have agency and autonomy.
You still get to decide who you are and who you'll be.
The woman you're becoming holds all the others within her,
And she is more powerful and vital than ever before.
I invite you to take a slow stretch and bring your awareness back to the space you're in.
In your own time,
Gently open your eyes.
Thank you so much for being with me today.
I'm sending love from my heart to yours.
