The Effects of Menopause on Unresolved Trauma: A Personal Insight

I’m not claiming it was a swift ordeal—rather, it was a decade-long journey of exploration, akin to a rollercoaster ride. One of those “buckle up, no stopping, no safety gear, chances are slim” experiences.

Truthfully, the journey is still in progress, but with less “aaaaggggghhhhh” and more “oh.”

Having mentally exchanged Nemesis Inferno for It’s a Small World, I can now reflect with deep empathy for that younger version of myself at the onset of perimenopause. She was the one desperately googling her way through a whirlwind of symptoms, never entirely sure if it was a brain tumor or a sluggish thyroid.

It all kicked off when I was about thirty-five (for reference, I’m currently forty-nine). I had just moved to Brighton from Cheshire to pursue a degree in songwriting at BIMM and dove into it with all the enthusiasm of a twenty-four-year-old; after all, I had the enthusiasm, that’s for sure.

The first year was crazy, to put it mildly, but then, the ground beneath me began to crack.

My mind would blank out on stage. The keyboard started appearing as a fuzzy mass of gelatin. My heart would race all night for no discernible cause. I developed a spare tire around my waist. I’d stroll into town and have a panic attack, gripping the wall of a bank while strangers looked at me with pity or concern.

My libido surged like a randy teenager. The rage was explosive, and my poor partner couldn’t even breathe next to me without sparking a tirade (I see the contrast, trust me).

It was a whirlwind of symptoms that even Dr. Google couldn’t decipher, and yeah, so could my actual doctor, but that’s a story for another day.

The real unraveling occurred when I went on tour with a band at forty-two.

It was meant to be a fun experience, but it turned out to be hell. Ten days, and I only managed to sleep properly for one of them. I returned home shattered, convinced that once I got back into my bed and the stability of my partner, I’d feel better.

But I didn’t. That’s when insomnia really set in. I had ‘learned’ how to not sleep, and now my mind was sabotaging me in an endless cycle.

In desperation, I made an appointment with a functional medicine practitioner who conducted some lab tests. The results showed “low everything,” and that was the first time I encountered the term perimenopause.

I didn’t think much about it back then—standard denial. But the term lodged itself somewhere in my mind.

Around the same time, I was organizing a speaker event in Brighton and immersing myself in therapeutic techniques as part of my own healing journey.

Music, my primary (well, actually secondary) career, had begun to feel more terrifying than exciting. In my quest for calm, I stumbled upon a technique called RTT, a deep subconscious reset performed under hypnosis, which transformed everything for me and led me onto a new career path.

As I continued to learn and implement what I was discovering, a significant epiphany struck:

“Wait a minute… Many of the stories I’m hearing from women in midlife encompass more than just symptoms; they involve deep, relational wounds. I wonder if there’s a connection between the severity of menopause symptoms and past experiences?”

So, I turned to Google Scholar to see if anyone else had noticed this connection, and sure enough, it was there.

I found a 2021 study in Maturitas that indicated women with higher ACE (Adverse Childhood Experiences) scores were up to 9.6 times more likely to experience severe menopausal symptoms, even when factors like anxiety, depression, and HRT were considered. That was mind-blowing.

Another 2023 study from Emory University revealed that perimenopausal women with trauma histories showed significantly higher levels of PTSD and depression compared to those in other hormonal phases. That clarified so much of what I was also experiencing.

Then, I discovered a 2017 paper in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry indicating that women who had experienced two or more ACEs were over 2.5 times more likely to have their first major depressive episode during menopause, even if they had no previous history of depression.

Lastly, a recent 2024 review framed early trauma as a key factor affecting hormonal sensitivity, especially during life transitions like perimenopause. It helped me realize that my challenges weren’t random or solely my fault; there was something much deeper at work.

Yet, I was still perplexed. What was the biological mechanism underlying all this?

In women exposed to trauma, our GABA receptors become altered. These receptors, which help to calm the nervous system, depend on a metabolite of progesterone known as allopregnanolone. However, trauma can interfere with both our capacity to break down progesterone into allopregnanolone and our ability to receive its effects at the cellular level (due to dysfunctional GABA receptors).

So essentially, even if we have sufficient progesterone, we might not be able to utilize it effectively. The resulting effect is an increased sensitivity to hormonal fluctuations, with an inability to receive the calming effects we should be deriving from progesterone.

As I began piecing all this together, I was compelled to confront something from my own past.

Because frankly, I thought I had a joyful childhood.

That was, until I encountered a concept that halted me in my tracks. It resonated so strongly, I practically slammed the book shut.

It’s termed enmeshment trauma.

It describes a form of relational trauma that frequently results in symptoms of CPTSD (which, just to remind you, tends to flare during menopause). But the issue is, enmeshment often conceals itself under the pretense of “closeness.” We prided ourselves on being a tight-knit family… perhaps too tight, in fact.

I was an only child, without anything to shield me from the judgment of my parents or the emotional burden they placed on me. They would confide in me about each other as if I were their best friend or therapist. I wasn’t aware at that time, but their emotional immaturity meant they depended on me for unconditional emotional support. I was a good listener and a highly perceptive child.

I became parentified. Complimented and validated for my early maturity, while being deprived of the chance to safely establish my own identity. I was “permitted” to discover myself, but the cost was emotional detachment from my father, which was equally painful since we had been so close.

It was perplexing and overwhelming, and I had no one to aid me in processing those emotions. It wired me for hyper-responsibility, anxiety, and guilt. Not exactly the optimal recipe for a smooth transition through menopause, which requires slowness, ease, and softness.

Being a textbook “daddy’s girl,” I unconsciously gravitated towards older men, bosses, teachers, even married individuals. Their energy felt familiar. Meanwhile, emotionally available options seemed dull, despite being safer. That attachment chaos added more electricity to the CPTSD pot that I had no idea was simmering beneath the surface of my somewhat narcissistic persona.

The final element in this complex trauma concoction was a hindered ability to individuate financially. I was still clinging to my parents’ financial support at forty-four. The shame, frustration, and despair culminated when I sank into the most significant self-sabotaging crisis of my life:

I made the decision to end my long-term relationship.

He was my pillar and my stability. But the “daddy’s girl” in me craved one final encore. When he refused to take me back, despite my pleas, it turned into chaos. However, in a twist of grace, my father had instilled in me resilience. How to climb out of a pit. And that’s precisely what I accomplished.

I learned to be financially independent. I recognized the value of committing to one person and treating them with respect. I learned to establish boundaries and become wonderfully self-preserving with my energy, as that’s what the menopause transition required of me.

And it’s likely that without those tumultuous hormonal shifts, I wouldn’t have discovered any of this.

Through my experiences, I’ve realized that menopause isn’t merely a hormonal event. It’s a complete life transition, both internally and externally. A transition profoundly influenced by the condition of our nervous system and our ability to be resilient and emotionally flexible.

For those of us carrying trauma, this resilience and flexibility are frequently compromised. Hormone therapy can be beneficial, indeed, but for sensitive systems, it’s merely a part of the overall puzzle. Sometimes, it can even exacerbate issues, particularly if not dosed appropriately.

As sensitive, trauma-aware women maneuvering through these hormonal transitions, there’s an abundance we can do to support ourselves outside the medical realm.

Slowing everything down represents one of the most potent methods we can use to create space for the ‘busy work’ our bodies are diligently undertaking during this transition. Gentle, restorative movement. Yoga Nidra. Early bedtimes. Simple, wholesome meals. Earthing and grounding in nature. Magnesium baths. Dry body brushing. Castor oil packs. Vaginal steaming. Think: self-care on steroids.

But perhaps the most revolutionary act I ever embraced was to carve out extra space in my schedule solely to S.L.O.W. D.O.W.N.

Now, eighteen months after menopause, I find myself contemplating.

What lessons did she impart?

She highlighted everything unresolved, unmet, and unchallenged.

She revealed where I was continuing to say yes to others and no to myself.

She taught me that I require more space than society deems comfortable.

She enabled me to release harmful beauty standards and afforded me time for rest.

She freed me from guilt for not adhering to others’ expectations.

She reframed my symptoms as love letters from my inner child, beckoning me back to myself.