Letter from My Luteal Phase

A quiet story about PMS, awareness, and a brain on hormones.

I’ve cried over an empty fridge, over dropping my keys, over a sudden wave of hopelessness that came out of nowhere. Not once or twice — but regularly, every month.

I couldn’t form the simplest of sentences, or complete even the most basic tasks at work. Not once or twice, but regularly, every month.

And for years, I had no idea why.

It wasn’t the kind of PMS you see in memes. There were no dramatic mood swings or chocolate binges. Mine came in quieter, more confusing ways: days where I couldn’t focus, when everything felt too loud, too much, or simply pointless. I’d become tired — not just physically, but as if the core of my being had lost its charge.

I used to think I was failing at life. At being a functioning adult.

It took me years — and three different doctors — to understand that what I was experiencing had a name: the luteal phase. The two weeks before my period, when hormones dip and shift and, in some women, turn the brain into unfamiliar territory.

The silence around women’s cycles

I grew up in a culture where we didn’t speak much about female biology. Periods were wrapped in code words. Emotions were something you kept to yourself. And one should be strong, and move on.

We definitely didn’t talk about how your brain chemistry can change depending on the week of your cycle.

Even when I finally brought it up to my doctor in Germany, the answer was dismissive: “That’s just how it is. You have to live with it.”

But why? Why should we live with days — sometimes weeks — of not feeling like ourselves, of struggling quietly while pretending nothing is wrong?

Finding a better path

It wasn’t until I started tracking my cycle — thank you, Clue — that I saw the pattern. Every month, the same stretch of days brought the same symptoms. They started 10 days before and ended 5 days before my period.

This couldn’t be PMS, I thought. It starts way earlier than what I had known of it.

Eventually, I found a (female) doctor who took me seriously, explained that this is a common type of PMS, and offered me support that helped.

Still, I wondered why this part of womanhood felt so… invisible.

Why don’t we learn this in school? Why isn’t this part of how we teach biology, or talk about health, or design workplaces?

Why do we still think PMS is just about being “moody”?

A new kind of support

Recently, I’ve been learning about new, non-hormonal tools to support women during this phase. One that stood out to me is called Nettle — developed by female neuroscientists, it works with the brain, not against it.

It turns out that our cycles create a heightened sensitivity in the brain — one that disrupts mood, cognition, and even pain processing. The brain actually changes.

Emilè Raditè, Nettle’s CEO, explained it beautifully:

“Let’s think of seasons — spring, summer, autumn, and winter — and then you have day and night. Men’s brains switch between day and night. Women have both: a season (their menstrual cycle) and a day and night. You know that an evening in autumn feels different than one in summer.” (Taken from the MOTHER podcast)

PMS and PMDD involve changes in the prefrontal-limbic response to normal hormonal shifts.

The device — which looks like a sleek headband — uses gentle electrodes to stimulate the affected part of the brain. Just 20 minutes a day with this non-invasive technology has been shown to significantly improve PMS symptoms.

That, to me, feels revolutionary. Not because it’s a magic pill — but because it’s a sign that we’re finally taking this seriously.

That there’s science catching up to what women have known for centuries: this is real. It’s in our brains — not just in our heads.

Why should we care?

Not every woman suffers from this experience. Not every man is obvlivient of this experience. But I truly beleive that those individuals who suffer, do in silence.

I simply hope you have a greater awareness, and be curious.

Because empathy starts with listening. And that’s something we all can do.

What I hope for

I hope my sons grow up in a world where talking about the menstrual cycle is not embarrassing, but simply part of life.

Where women don’t have to “tough it out” through hormonal shifts — but have access to tools, support, and compassion.

And I hope more of us, regardless of gender, start paying attention to the quiet things that shape a woman’s everyday experience.

Sometimes, awareness is the first act of care.

Did this resonate with you?

If you know someone who might benefit from this story —a friend, a partner, a daughter, or a colleague— share it.

Together, we can start conversations that have been silent for too long.