I love climbing, but some weekends, it feels impossible. Not because of the rocks, the heat, or even fear—but because of my body. My hormones. My emotions. That unpredictable rhythm that comes with being a woman.
As much as I sometimes resist it, hormones do influence my emotional sensitivity. Every month, my estrogen and progesterone rise and fall, creating new eggs, shedding the old lining, and starting over. It’s incredible in a way, and it keeps me healthy. But it can also make me impatient, cranky, or tearful, sometimes without warning. I wish I could pause it, turn it off, and only switch it back on when I’m ready for pregnancy. But life doesn’t work that way.
I don’t mind the premenstrual symptoms that feel empowering—like bigger boobs that make me feel sexy—but the headaches, bloating, mood swings, and brown discharge? Not fun at all. I struggle with premenstrual depression. I’m not clinically diagnosed, but I see it every day in the pharmacy, and I recognize it in myself. Sometimes, it makes me feel weak, like I’m blaming my period for feelings I should be able to control. But the truth is, this sensitivity is part of me—and I’m still figuring out how to live with it.
This past weekend tested me. My period came early, and we had planned a climbing trip from Friday to Sunday. Friday was scorching—40°C in the sun. We climbed Kachung at the Arapilies, a photogenic spot, but not my best day. The heat during belaying and rope setup left me boiling and short-tempered. I wanted to be inside, in aircon, wrapped in my partner’s arms, rather than on the crag. Yet I had chosen to be there, so I tried to enjoy climbing anyway. Later, we moved to Golden Echo in the shade, which felt better and more manageable.
The next day, we woke to pouring rain. On the way to Flight Deck, I was already feeling furious. Every step up the hill felt heavy, and the cold raindrops on my body felt sharper, bigger, more intrusive than usual. At some point, I decided I wanted to go to Have a Good Flight, but I was already getting angry at myself. Part of me blamed my partner, thinking he was pressuring me to move because he didn’t want to sit inside the tent all day. The other part of me knew how irrational and silly that sounded—we had already planned to climb there, we just hadn’t expected the rain, and it made sense to go knowing the crag was dry. Even knowing that, I couldn’t shake the frustration, and the scramble itself scared me—the rocks were slippery, and the thought of falling and potential death made my heart race. By the time we reached the crag, I had cried. I was frustrated at myself for getting angry, for feeling ungrateful, and for thinking I was ruining the trip.
Sunday brought more challenges. My skin was raw from the previous day, making crimps painful. I had to ask my partner to clean the draws, which he kindly offered, and I felt guilty knowing his skin hurt too. When we got home, I wanted to do laundry before our next trip. My partner offered help, and I said no, thinking he should rest. Then I got frustrated at him for not helping. I knew it didn’t make sense—my anger wasn’t really about laundry—but in that moment, everything felt louder and harder to manage. My thoughts spiraled, my patience disappeared, and I didn’t know how to stop feeling overwhelmed.
I don’t even know if I feel okay most days. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t—it’s unpredictable. But there are moments, like during my cycle or when everything feels too hot, too exhausting, or too overwhelming, where my emotions spike. Small frustrations suddenly feel huge. Fear, discomfort, or just being in the wrong mood can make me snap at things I normally wouldn’t. I hate feeling like this, and I hate that I sometimes treat the people I care about unkindly. I don’t always know how to navigate it, and some days I feel completely out of control.
I’m still trying to figure out what it means to be this sensitive. Right now, it doesn’t feel like a strength—it just feels messy, frustrating, and unpredictable. I don’t always know how to acknowledge my feelings in the moment, or how to stop them from spilling over onto the people I love. Some days I want to hide, some days I want to explode, and most days I just try to keep moving and hope I don’t make things worse.
Climbing through my cycles doesn’t feel like a lesson or a growth story yet. It’s just… hard. Fear, heat, hormones, and impatience all mixing together. Sometimes I enjoy it, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I get angry, sometimes I laugh at how irrational I feel. It’s unpredictable, and I haven’t figured out a way to make it neat or manageable.
But even in the chaos, I keep showing up—to climbing, to life, to relationships—even when I feel out of control. I don’t have answers, I don’t have solutions, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe showing up anyway, even when I feel irrational and overwhelmed, is the closest thing to navigating this mess that I can manage.
