Yesterday, I came back from my hip consultation, and it’s official: we’re going ahead with a hip replacement surgery this spring. It still feels surreal to write that.

I’ve said the words out loud a few times, almost like I’m testing how they sound in the air, but there’s a part of me that still can’t quite catch up. Like my mind is hovering above my body, watching this unfold, whispering, Is this really happening? And the answer is yes.

I was born with hip dysplasia. I had multiple surgeries as a child. I grew up with the quiet understanding that my body came with extra maintenance, extra appointments, extra resilience. But I also grew up with a strange kind of optimism about it, the kind only children have. Like, if you get through enough hard things early, you’re somehow exempt later.

In my head, that chapter was done. I thought I’d paid my dues young. I thought my body would behave from here on out. But bodies don’t follow storylines. They follow biology. They follow seasons. They follow wear and tear. They follow the parts of our lives we’ve pushed through on adrenaline and grit.

And then in my mid-40s, I ended up with advanced arthritis. That sentence alone still catches in my throat sometimes, because it feels too big for my age, too unfair for the amount of strength I’ve already had to cultivate.

And then perimenopause arrived. Not politely. Not quietly. It turned the volume up on everything. Pain. Inflammation. Fatigue. Recovery time. The way my body held stress. The way my sleep stopped doing what it used to do. Manageable things became loud, and things I could ignore became impossible to ignore. Perimenopause didn’t create my hip issues, but it amplified them. It made everything feel heavier. Slower. More intense. Like my body was asking me to stop pretending I could keep living the way I always had.

And now, here I am in my late 40s, preparing for a full hip replacement. This isn’t the storyline I would have chosen. If I’m honest, there’s grief in that. A quiet mourning for the body I thought I’d have. For the ease I assumed would return. For the version of me who believed she’d already survived the hardest chapters.

But there’s also something else. A strange tenderness. A deep humbling. Because life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it? Of shaking us awake. Of reminding us what actually matters when everything else is noisy.

And here’s the truth I keep coming back to, again and again: When your health isn’t right, nothing else feels right. Not your plans. Not your relationships. Not your work. Not your dreams. Not even your sense of self. Everything starts revolving around what your body can and can’t do.

You don’t realise how much you’ve been compensating until you’re forced to stop. You don’t realise how much energy pain takes until you experience a pain-free day and suddenly remember what it feels like to be light inside yourself.

And maybe that’s why this is landing so deeply for me. Because in midlife, health stops being a background concern and becomes the foundation it always was. You can’t outthink your body. You can’t outsource the basics. You can’t manifest your way out of something that needs real care, real support, real intervention.

So this is me sharing it quietly, in case you need the reminder too. Please look after yourself. Don’t wait for your body to start shouting before you listen. Book the appointment. Take the rest. Strengthen what needs strengthening. Eat in a way that supports you. Advocate for yourself. Stop treating pain and exhaustion like a normal part of being a woman. Your health is not a side quest. It’s the foundation.

I don’t know exactly what this spring will look like yet. I know there will be recovery and patience and humbling moments where I’ll need help, and I won’t be able to push through the way I used to. And I know it will challenge me, especially the part of me that likes to be in control. The part that wants to be productive, capable and independent.

But I also know this: I’m choosing to meet this season with respect. Not with fear. Not with denial. With honesty. With reverence. Because this body has carried me through everything, and now it’s asking for a new beginning.

I’ll share more as I go. But for now, I’m sending love, and a gentle nudge:

Take care of yourself x

If my words have helped you, a small contribution here will allow them to continue reaching the women who need them most. Also, don't forget to join me on Substack, where I share my Love Notes, a gentle pause in your week to reflect, realign, and reconnect in midlife. It’s not just another newsletter; it’s an intimate circle where I offer fresh intentions, soulful prompts, and simple but powerful shifts to inspire purposeful, creative living. Together, we’ll uncover the small but meaningful changes that help you design a life that feels beautifully your own.