Not Again.....

Two Puberties (Because One Clearly Wasn’t Enough)

As girls, we don’t realize that somewhere down the road of womanhood… we get two puberties.

Aren’t we just the lucky ones?

I got my period at age 12. Even though I knew it would come someday, I wasn’t any less scared or prepared when I started bleeding for the first time. Of course, it happened at school. Grade 7. Naturally.

Thankfully, most of my friends had already started their periods and someone had a pad I could use until I got home.

But home didn’t really help either.

My dad raised me on his own from the time I was two until I moved out at 19—bless his heart. There were no “just in case” supplies in the house. It was just me and him, figuring things out as we went.

I was SO thankful for one of my “surrogate moms”—one of the two women I babysat for starting at age 12. She lived just down the road, and that day she handed me a full pack of pads to take home. Later in life, I found out she had called my dad while I was walking home to give him the heads-up.

For not having a mom growing up, I was incredibly lucky. I had the pleasure of having two amazing women in my life right when I needed them most.

I’ve been thinking about this post for a while. I remembered getting my period, of course—but I didn’t remember being an emotional disaster.

So I dug out my old journals from ages 14–18.

And… wow.

I was an absolute emotional train wreck. I laughed so hard reading them, and then immediately felt sorry for my dad. And my friends. And my boyfriends. Good grief. I was basically a yo-yo strapped to a rollercoaster.

My husband loves to tease me about how many boyfriends I had in junior and senior high. Maybe things were just different back then? None of my kids dated until after graduation. Meanwhile, my friend group—about 15 of us—basically rotated through each other like some small-town dating carousel. Every girl dated every guy at some point.

Looking back, those journals feel like reading about someone else’s life.

Was that really me?

I cried constantly. I wrote poetry. I fought with friends one day and was best friends with them again the next. I felt intense hatred toward certain people. The level of anger honestly scares me now.

Some things in my life weren’t fair—and that’s true—but my immature brain, fueled by raging hormones, had no idea how to process any of it. Everything felt like the end of the world.

Fast forward 35+ years… and here we are again.

Different stage of life.

Suspiciously similar emotions.

Anger. Sadness. Irritability. (No rage yet… let’s not jinx it.)

And fear.

Not new—but definitely evolved.

Now the questions are different.

Did I do enough raising my kids?

Was I a good mom? I wanted to do better than what I had—but I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. I honestly don’t always know how to answer that.

Am I a good enough wife?

Do I contribute enough? With my health issues and the fact that I can’t do what I used to… is it still enough? Am I a burden?

Am I doing enough for my dad, now that he lives with us?

Sometimes I feel like I’m five years old again, reliving pieces of my childhood in ways I didn’t expect.

And then there’s my body…

Oh, my body.

Estrogen quietly packs up and leaves, and suddenly everything goes sideways. My bladder is apparently trying to exit stage south, and things are drier than the Sahara in a windstorm.

The grey hair? Coming in hot.

Spiritually, I’ve drifted.

I don’t go to church like I used to. I don’t read my Bible as often. I don’t pray the same way. And I am so tired—all the time.

I cry more easily now. Not full breakdowns—just… leaking feelings.

And honestly? I’m grateful I live in a time where women going through this aren’t locked away and labeled “hysterical.”

Because let’s be real—this would have gotten us institutionalized a hundred years ago.

I don’t know if this gets better.

Do we mellow out again?

Does wisdom eventually smooth the edges?

I’d like to think so.

I can look back at my teenage journals now and shake my head at how dramatic I was. Maybe 30 years from now I’ll read this and feel the same way.

I hope so.

Because right now, this feels very real.

And I really hope I’m not alone in it.

Because I’m not ready to get old just yet.