Just the Beginning
I hadn’t seen her in years. When she walked into my lounge radiant in a deep red shawl, she embraced me with the kind of warmth that makes you feel instantly at home.
“I’m finally menopausing!” she announced, laughing, glowing, flaunting herself as if she had just unlocked a new level in life. I was taken aback, not by her words, but by the sheer joy with which she said them.
Growing up in a Pakistani household where Urdu was the main language, I mostly heard one word for menopause: “san-e-yaas.” It literally translates to the year of sadness. Aunties would whisper about other aunties who had “crossed over”, as if they had entered an unspoken afterlife where they were no longer relevant.
For many, menopause is not just considered the end of menstruation, its considered the end of desirability, youth, and purpose. A woman who could no longer bear children was considered to have fulfilled her use in society. Her world became smaller, and she often faded into the background.
But sitting across from my friend, sipping on chai, I realized something else was happening. The narrative was finally shifting in South Asia.
“I don’t know why nobody told us,” she continued. “I feel free. No more periods to deal with. No more worrying about getting pregnant. No more mood swings. I finally feel like me.”
She was right. Menopause really was a second chance at life. A time when women can finally focus on themselves after decades of focusing on everyone else.
Yet, for many women, menopause remains shrouded in mystery and stigma. Two years ago, my colleague Madiha Latif and I moderated a session on menopause at the WoW Festival. Some women shared stories of newfound freedom and empowerment, while others spoke of feeling invisible and constrained. Conversations like these are crucial, especially in societies where such topics are spoken of in hushed tones. The more we talk about menopause, the more women can openly understand their bodies, and reclaim their narratives.
My own mother transformed after menopause. She became bolder, more outgoing, and started speaking her mind in ways I had never seen before. It was as if the version of her that had been carefully conditioned to be agreeable and self-sacrificing had stepped aside for a new woman, one who was finally living for herself.
In the West, there has been a growing movement to reclaim menopause as a time of power and renewal. In America, brands and celebrities are starting to talk about it openly, championing menopause as a new adventure rather than a slow fade into irrelevance. But in the Global South, we are still catching up. The deeply ingrained association between a woman’s worth and her ability to reproduce remains strong.
For centuries, a woman’s body has been defined by its ability to create life. If she is an oven, then menopause is the moment the world tells her, you are no longer baking. But what if we change the metaphor? What if, instead of being an oven that is turned off, she is a fire that has been rekindled in new ways?
Menopause doesn’t just affect a woman, it reshapes her relationships, too. And often, it arrives at the same time as another seismic shift in the home: raising teenagers.
Imagine a house where a mother is dealing with hot flashes and identity shifts while her teenage daughter or son is drowning in hormones and existential crises. It is a cocktail for chaos, a recipe for disaster. I have seen families unravel in this phase, with mothers and children clashing in ways that neither fully understand.
The key, I’ve learned, is awareness. A woman going through menopause needs tools such as support networks, self-care strategies, and open conversations with her family. She also needs the space to focus on herself for the first time in decades.
In some parts of the world, menopause isn’t treated as a curse but as a transition into a respected stage of life. In China, older women are taking up space in public parks, dancing, practicing Tai Chi, forming social groups. Their presence is visible and celebrated.
In Japan, menopause is called konenki, which translates to “renewal years” or “energy years.” It is not seen as a loss but as an evolution.
Compare that to South Asia, where older women often withdraw into the background, their lives now revolving around their children, and often household politics. It’s no coincidence that menopause and the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law power dynamic often go hand in hand. A woman who once had no voice suddenly finds herself with power, but instead of channelling it into herself, she turns it into control over the younger women in the household.
What if we encouraged menopausal women to channel that energy elsewhere? Into themselves? Into reinvention? Into adventure?
What if, instead of fearing menopause, we prepared women for it with the same excitement that we prepare young girls for puberty? What if, instead of calling it san-e-yaas, the year of sadness, we called it the year of awakening?
As I sat across from my friend, watching her sing along to Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai by Lata Mangeshkar, I saw the future I want for all women. A future where menopause is not something to fear, but something to embrace.
It’s just the beginning.
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