There was a moment a few years back that never quite sat right with me. I was in the Hit Play Not Pause private Facebook group when I commented on a post, sharing a bit about my own experience in surgical menopause. Dr. Stacy Sims replied—yes, that Stacy Sims, one of the only experts speaking publicly about menopause and athletic performance. You’d think I’d be glad she responded, but what she said still lingers.
Here’s her comment:
“As a surgical menopausal athlete you have not had the 5 to 6 years of hormone shifts that invoke all the body comp etc... changes but have been thrown into the flatlined hormone profile all at once—for you (and others I have worked with in the same situation) reducing volume and adding intensity + heavy lifting reduces/slows the rate of change, giving somewhat a leg up over nonsurgical menopause.”
My response?
“I personally experienced a huge shift in body comp as well. I didn't get 5–6 years of slow changes. I got about 6 months for it to happen.”
And that was that.
The interaction was brief, but it says a lot about the current landscape for those of us in surgical menopause: we’re often acknowledged only in passing, if at all. Even when someone does mention us, it tends to come with assumptions or oversimplifications. There’s a sense that because we didn’t go through years of hormonal shifts, we’ve somehow been spared the worst of it. That we should be grateful we didn’t have to “ride the wave.”
But that’s not how this works. Not even close.
It’s not a shortcut. It’s a cliff.
Surgical menopause isn’t menopause sped up—it’s menopause turned inside out. One day, your body is running on hormones. The next, it’s not. There’s no warm-up act. No gradual recalibration. Just a sudden, sweeping shutdown of systems that were regulating everything from your sleep to your metabolism to your emotional resilience.
For me, the body comp changes were brutal and fast. I didn’t have the luxury of “watching things shift over time.” I had to watch my performance, strength, and recovery change seemingly overnight—and without a roadmap. The message I got was basically: lift heavy, train smart, and move on.
But here’s the thing: this isn’t just about sets and reps. This is about identity. It’s about trauma. It’s about navigating the fallout of major surgery, often after years of pain, illness, or medical gaslighting. It’s about waking up in a body that doesn’t feel familiar and realizing the resources out there don’t speak to you.
Even the experts miss the mark sometimes.
I’m not here to cancel Stacy Sims. I actually appreciate that she’s opened the door to menopause being a topic in athletic circles at all. But holding that appreciation doesn’t mean I can’t also point out the gaps.
There’s a dismissiveness in the way surgical menopause gets framed—like the real challenge is just dialing in your training stress to make up for missing hormones. And that misses the full human experience. The grief, the anger, the disorientation, the fight to stay in your sport when everything in your body feels like it’s rewriting the rules.
And most of all, the silence. The lack of research. The way our stories get squeezed into a footnote at best.
We deserve a chapter of our own.
As a coach now, I work with a lot of athletes in midlife. Some are navigating natural menopause, others are in surgical menopause like I was. The throughline? They want to be seen. Not as fragile. Not as broken. But also not as a simplified version of someone else’s transition.
They want support that actually reflects the path they’re walking. That means acknowledging the physical changes, yes—but also the emotional and psychological shifts that come with being abruptly cut off from your hormones.
It means making space for messy middle ground. For the not-quite-there-yet recovery. For the trial and error. For the rage. For the deep sense of loss that sometimes bubbles up when you realize your body has changed and no one really warned you what that would feel like.
This post isn’t about being bitter. It’s about being honest.
Surgical menopause athletes aren’t asking for special treatment—we’re asking for visibility. For nuance. For someone to stop and say, Hey, your experience matters too. Let’s talk about it.
So I’m talking about it. Because I want other athletes to know they’re not broken. Because I want coaches to pause before lumping us into generic protocols. And because I believe the more we speak, the more we fill in the missing chapters for ourselves—and for the next generation coming up behind us.
We’re not an exception to the rule. We are the rule. And it’s time the conversation caught up.