By: Petra Chase, Features Editor

Editor’s note: The following article reflects the writer’s personal experience regarding hormonal contraceptives and menstrual cycles, which vary from person to person. It is for informational purposes only. Always consult a qualified medical practitioner for medical advice.

“Don’t listen to her, she’s probably just PMSing.”

Growing up with a menstruating body, the first and few acknowledgements I had of my menstrual cycle were through the lens of dismissal and shame. I was taught it was “gross” to mention my period in the company of boys and men. In school, girls would hide pads and tampons in our sleeves and share them with each other under our desks.

Premenstrual syndrome (PMS) describes a set of symptoms that occur post-ovulation and can last a few days into menstruation. The emotional and physical symptoms vary in intensity and can include fatigue, bloating, irritability, difficulty concentrating, insomnia, and changes in appetite. This is due to hormonal dysregulation during the luteal phase in the menstrual cycle: progesterone and estrogen rise and fall. Serotonin, the “feel good” hormone, also tends to decrease as a result. 

But I was never taught my body goes through monthly chemical changes. In biology class, we learned about menstruation through the lens of reproduction (the egg, the sperm, the shedding of the uterus lining). In a culture that centres men and sidelines women’s health, my mother had never been taught beyond that either. It took me until my 20s to discover there are four distinct hormonal phases of the menstrual cycle. These phases affect mood, energy levels, and physical symptoms in different ways. And by tuning into them, I’d be better equipped to support myself at different points in the month.

Last year, I decided I wanted to reclaim my bodily knowledge. For me, that meant giving my Mirena intrauterine device (IUD) the boot. I had been using it for almost seven years. Hormonal birth control like the Mirena works as a contraceptive by releasing synthetic hormones which inhibit reproductive processes. Everybody is different, so experiences vary. Some people use hormonal contraceptives to treat conditions like endometriosis, control PMS symptoms, or treat gender dysphoria by making periods less painful and frequent, or disappear altogether. 

The trouble was, I was never given the tools to notice and understand my body’s natural hormonal rhythms. Only having a few, painless periods a few times a year was supposed to be a blessing, and one of the vague side effects was changes in mood. But how could I know if it was the right option for me if I had no baseline for comparison? What if there were non-hormonal contraceptive options out there that could better support me?

Since going off synthetic hormones a year ago, I’ve been journalling about my symptoms throughout the month, and it’s been a refreshing process of intuitive reflection. For the first time, I feel like I have insight into what’s happening in my body at any given time and my cycle follows a 28-day pattern.

Right now I’m in my follicular phase, which lasts about 14 days. It starts right after the menstrual phase and leads into ovulation. I see it as my body’s spring. As it prepares an egg for fertilization, there is an influx of follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) and estrogen, which also increases serotonin levels. This, paired with the sunny days we’ve been having lately, means I am in a particularly good mood. I feel confident, motivated, social, and have noticeably higher energy than usual. I also know that my luteal phase is looming around the corner, so I’m savouring this feeling before ovulation ends and my hormones wreak havoc.

My luteal phase has been the biggest curveball post-Mirena. Physical PMS symptoms have been negligible, but the mood-related ones have been debilitating. I’ll be going about my day when, suddenly, I’m hijacked by catastrophic thoughts that feel impossible to control. It’s either, “everyone hates me,” “I hate everyone,” or both. Sometimes feelings are so overwhelming I shut down, unable to make simple decisions and communicate. It takes everything to hold in a crying spell as I rush back home from wherever I was going. For up to nine days every month, I dream of a cabin in the woods. And then, like clockwork, as soon as I start bleeding, I snap out of it. It’s a mix of relief and guilt, for having lashed out at those close to me and fallen behind on my responsibilities.

Premenstrual dysphoric disorder, or PMDD, is a chronic form of PMS. Its exact cause isn’t known, but it disrupts daily function and requires treatment. Recent studies suggest this psychiatric disorder affects 1.6% of people who menstruate, though due to a lack of awareness and stigma, it is grossly underdiagnosed. 82% of people with PMDD have experienced suicidal thoughts during their luteal phase. I haven’t sought a diagnosis, but I’ve been seeing more people sharing their experiences online, and close friends opening up about it.

I wonder if many of us would be facing such realizations so late in life if we’d been taught proper hormonal education, and there were structures in place to support a monthly cycle. Perennial patterns could’ve easily been visualized like seasons in lesson plans accompanying puberty. It’s how I’ve conceptualized my rhythms: PMS is my internal autumn, when my uterus lining sheds, along with my happy hormones, and everything feels eerie.

Western society isn’t structured around the month. In work, school, and everyday life, time seems tethered to the 24-day cycle of the sun. You’re expected to show up consistently every day of the work week, no matter what’s going on internally. The hormonal cycle of people assigned male at birth tends to follow a daily cycle, with testosterone rising in the morning and decreasing in the evening. It is uniquely challenging for people to meet these expectations when they’re going through major hormonal shifts. 

Don’t get me wrong, hustle culture isn’t a walk in the park for anyone, and hormonal dysregulation can occur for everyone, regardless of biological sex. It can be caused by things like stress, aging, and gender-affirming hormone therapy. If sex education included this information, we’d be better equipped to understand what’s happening in our brains and approach ourselves and others with care. We might be able to make more informed decisions around contraceptives and symptom management. I might feel comfortable communicating that I need space because I’m dealing with my luteal phase, and not worry about being seen as dramatic or lying, or reduced to the petulant, hysterical woman stereotype that’s been used historically to dismiss female biology. 

Many Indigenous cultures see menstruation as sacred and closely dictated by the moon. In some cultures, like the Anishinaabe, moon time (menstruation) offers a special connection to Grandmother Moon, who offers wisdom, balance, and healing. For many Nations, like the Cree, Ojibwe, and Inuit, moon time is a period of reflection, and taking a break from chores to relax and recharge. 

I can’t predict environmental stressors, but I finally feel like I have a grasp on my inner workings.

I try to plan things like workouts, social gatherings, and new projects for my internal spring. I’m also learning what foods to eat to support different phases, and seeing how my oddly specific cravings are often my body’s way of communicating the nutrients it needs. Like a bear preparing for hibernation, I expect to slow down during my luteal phase; doing bed yoga, getting a few extra hours of sleep, and not agreeing to a ton of social plans. I’m reframing mood swings through curiosity rather than judgement, using my moon time to reflect on what feelings I might have been suppressing for them to be unleashed so intensely when I removed my Mirena.

Syncing my lifestyle with a new internal timeframe has helped me feel more present and trust my intuition. Even if my feelings go haywire for half the month, it helps to know I’m not alone and noticing patterns within me brings a sense of clarity. It’s like my body has been trying to communicate with me, and finally, I’m learning its language.