You know… not with a loud trumpet or grand announcement, but with a whisper in your bones.
There comes a moment—soft, sacred, and unmistakable—when a woman senses that the version of herself she’s carried for decades no longer fits like it used to. The roles, the responsibilities, the relentless pace, the people-pleasing, the perfectionism… they begin to feel like clothing that once kept her warm but now weighs heavy on her skin.
This isn’t about giving up.
It’s about returning.
Returning to the truth of who she is beneath the expectations, beyond the titles, outside the identities she so gracefully wore for everyone else.
Menopause, in all its mess and magic, is not the end. It is the threshold. A portal. An invitation.
And when a woman reaches this sacred season—her final season of becoming—it is not about becoming more.
It is about unbecoming.
Unbecoming the noise.
Unbecoming the need to prove.
Unbecoming the fear that she is too much or not enough.
She knows she’s ready when silence feels safer than performance.
When her body demands reverence over routine.
When her soul craves softness, slowness, spaciousness.
She’s ready when she catches herself saying, “No more,”
and it feels like freedom—not loss.
When her longing for peace becomes greater than her tolerance for pressure.
She’s ready when the mirror becomes a place of compassion,
not criticism.
When her laughter returns like a long-lost friend,
and she no longer apologizes for her joy, her grief, her desire, her truth.
She’s ready when she realizes that the wisdom she’s been seeking…
has been living inside her all along.
And so, with love as her compass and courage in her heart,
she begins to gently unravel.
To shed.
To soften.
To bloom—differently now, but more radiantly than ever before.
This is the gift of the final season.
This is the art of unbecoming.
This is her becoming more herself than she has ever been.
And she will know.
She always knows.
In her own time. In her own way.
With grace.
With fire.
With love.
Jacquie
