She's 44.
She's been waking up at 3am for fourteen months.
Not every night. But often enough that she dreads going to sleep. She falls asleep fine. Then 3am hits — heart pounding, wide awake, staring at the ceiling.
And absolutely nothing is wrong.
No nightmare. No noise. No reason. Just a heart rate that says emergency — and a body that refuses to stand down.
She kicks the covers off. Two minutes later she's freezing, pulling them back.
Burning alive and freezing to death at the same time. And then the anxiety rolls in. Racing thoughts about nothing. About everything.
Her brain feels like a haunted carnival that never closes.
By day she's dragging through work on broken sleep. Snapping at people she loves. And then — without warning — rage. Over something small. Something that doesn't deserve it. And then the shame after.
She went to her doctor. Described all of it.
Her doctor ran a hormone test. FSH came back normal. She was told she was probably too young for perimenopause. She was offered an antidepressant.