Writing The Hormone Heist was a bit like trying to herd hormones into a spreadsheet. I didn’t set out to write a menopause book; I was mostly trying to stay sane and remember what day it was. Somewhere between the hot flushes, the brain fog, and an alarming new habit of crying at adverts, it turned into a full manuscript.

It began as late-night notes on my phone, the sort you type because you can’t sleep and suddenly find yourself questioning everything. Like how your children can spell chimpanzini-bananini flawlessly, yet still can’t pick their clothes up off the floor. Somewhere in between, the tone of the book appeared: baffled, honest, and just about holding it together.

The hardest part wasn’t writing it. It was decoding what I’d written the next morning and wondering why I’d apparently shouted half of it in caps lock. I actually wrote the brain fog chapter separately three times, which feels both poetic and concerning. Then came the editing stage: the humbling process of realising how many times I’d used the words “rage and biscuits”.

I didn’t want to write advice or tell anyone how to handle menopause. I just wanted to tell the truth, that it’s messy, ridiculous, sometimes funny, and definitely not the serene experience the wellness industry keeps promising.

This book came out of chaos, caffeine, and sheer stubbornness. If it makes anyone feel seen, or at least laugh about the madness of it all, then it’s been worth every rewrite.