Let me start with the truth:
I didn’t think I needed another supplement.
I’ve got a drawer full of “clean” this and “clinically proven” that. And if I had a dollar for every time a bottle promised me glowing skin, better sleep, and “renewed vitality,” I could afford a week at a spa in Bali with a full lymphatic drainage package and a moon-ceremony sound bath thrown in.
But here I was, one Tuesday morning, sitting in the kitchen in my robe, mascara from two days ago still haunting the edges of my lashes, trying to figure out why my body suddenly felt like it was living in someone else’s house. Hot flashes? Check. Brain fog? More like brain swamp. Mood swings? Let’s just say the dog learned to avoid eye contact.
My name is Sam. I’m 43. And perimenopause hit me like a badly parked shopping cart on a windy day.
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