Not Storting, Splitting.

There is a very particular kind of weirdness that comes with weekly estradiol injections. At least for me, it stopped feeling like “taking medication” almost immediately and started feeling more like living through a tiny emotional season every seven days. Thursday night became “Girl Juice Recharge Time,” and somewhere along the way my body apparently decided that was an actual event.

The first few weeks, I mostly noticed physical things. Tenderness. Warmth. Tiny emotional shifts that were easy to dismiss if I wanted to. But after a while, I realized the week itself had a rhythm. Thursday night after my injection, I would feel calmer. Softer somehow. Like somebody had turned down the static in my brain. Friday and Saturday were usually my best days: energy up, mood stable, music sounding richer, Beat Saber feeling smooth instead of forced.

Then Wednesday morning, things would dip a little.

Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. Just enough that I noticed. Motivation got heavier. Dysphoria got louder. Small tasks felt oddly difficult. But Wednesdays in the classroom had their own strange layer. My routines would slip a little. Being fully “on” for students took more effort. I could still teach, still joke, still keep the room moving, but by that point in the week it often felt like I was running almost entirely on “Teacher Mode.” The professional version of me would step forward and carry the day while the rest of me quietly tried to keep up behind the scenes.

I would catch myself staring at dishes or laundry or unopened mail later that evening like they were emotionally complicated instead of just…objects. Thursday evenings became especially strange because recharge time was close enough to feel. Sometimes I would count down the hours a little.

What caught me off guard was how real the pattern felt.

I had expected physical changes. I had expected emotions. I did not expect my entire week to start developing its own internal weather system. There were days where I genuinely felt like my brain and body were syncing to something for the first time instead of constantly arguing with each other.

But lately, something has shifted again.

Tonight is seven hours before injection time, and I feel…fine. Energy good. Mood steady. No emotional cliff waiting around the corner. And instead of lying in bed doomscrolling until recharge time, I’m standing in the kitchen splitting up silverware with quiet determination.

Not sorting.

Splitting.

Forks into one pile. Spoons into another. Deciding who gets which serving utensils after thirty-three years of marriage. It is such an unbelievably ordinary task, and somehow it feels heavier than almost anything else lately. Not loud. Not explosive. Just real in a way that settles into your chest while you stand there holding a handful of teaspoons.

And yet, weirdly, surprisingly, I’m okay.

A couple months ago, Thursday evenings sometimes felt emotionally fragile. Now they feel steadier. Sad sometimes, yes. Reflective definitely. But stable. Less like I am barely hanging on until the next injection and more like my body finally understands the rhythm it is trying to keep.

The emotional weather is still there. I still notice the cycle. But the swings are softer now. More manageable. Less like surviving and more like living.

Honestly, there is something deeply middle-aged and deeply trans about realizing your Thursday night consists of quietly dividing silverware while waiting for your estradiol shot.

Not glamorous, not cinematic: just real life.

Still excited for recharge time though.