The Change: When Grandma’s Warning Finally Punched Back

One of my most vivid memories of my grandmother happened when I was about eight years old, maybe a tad younger. She brought me into her bedroom, had me sit on the edge of her bed, and told me we needed to have a talk.

I remember it like it was yesterday. My hands were resting in my lap, and she placed hers right over mine. She looked me in the eye and said, “We need to talk about the birds and the bees.” I was completely confused. I already knew about birds and bees—what on earth was she going to tell me that I didn’t already know?

As it turned out, her version had nothing to do with what I’d been taught in school. I listened intently to every word, not really comprehending a thing, but nodding along so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed. At the end of our chat, she brought up something called “the change.”

“You will know when it happens,” she warned me. “It will creep up on you and punch you at the same time, but you will know.”

I left her room feeling terrified. What did she mean? What was “the change”? My child mind raced with wild possibilities—was I going to transform into something else? And if so, what?

Many years later, I was walking through the mall when a young girl approached me to fill out a survey. The age brackets listed on her clipboard were 18–23, 24–30, 31–36, 37–40, and 40+. I looked at the sheet, looked back at the girl, and nearly burst into tears right then and there. I was in the last category. Reality hit hard: I’m in the final age group. I’m old! When did this happen? I can’t be old—I have a two-year-old at home!

A few weeks later, the universe decided to double down. I was shopping at Walmart with my toddler when an older woman approached us. She smiled and asked how old my grandson was. I stared at her in total disbelief before proudly claiming him as my son. She apologized and walked away, leaving me feeling like I’d just lied to a stranger. But he was my child, and I was only forty. I wasn't old!

When I got home, I rushed into the bathroom and stared into the mirror—not a quick glance, but a real, hard look. I traced my hands over my face. Sure, I saw a few faint lines, but nothing dramatic. What were these people talking about? I was not old.

Well, that was fifteen years ago. Now, I am officially old, and just like Grandma promised, "the change" crept up on me and delivered a knockout punch.

I have officially passed perimenopause and landed squarely in full-blown menopause. I’m living with the hot flashes, the sleepless nights, and those infamous, unpredictable mood swings. One minute I’m completely content; the next, I’m crying and ready to grab a baseball bat and smash everything in sight.

Those are the days my family tread lightly. They know I’d never actually hurt them, but a healthy dose of fear sets in anyway. Then, five minutes after the emotional tempest passes, I’ll walk into the kitchen completely refreshed and ask, “So, what does everyone want for dinner?”

The bewildered stares I get in return are absolutely priceless. I can practically read their minds: What is wrong with Mom?

Well, family, it’s called “The Change.” Grandma warned me about this decades ago—and now, I finally get it!

-Jackie