• ms. crone

let's get this party started




The first sign of the change in me wasn’t a hot flash or a missed period. It was an unforeseeable obsession with Joni Mitchell. Having been more of a hard-rock type for most of my life, and a punk rock type for part of it, Joni’s sound just never resonated—until suddenly it did.


Hormones are a helluva drug. So when mine started bouncing around like balls in a lottery machine, I quickly realized I could resist or I could accept. Easier said than done, I know. But on those days when the mirror is cruel and the makeup is sliding (is it hot in here or is it me?) and I'm late (again) for work, and what not to wear is all that's in the closet . . . if I just surrender, the chaos of my inner dialogue tends to chill. And by surrender, I mean:




Though I’m now several years past my final period and all the brutality therein, I still have those moments. (Court and Spark is holding steady on my desert island list.) And if I’m honest, hormone chaos was in some ways easier than hormone absence.


As a journalist and a Gemini, I research everything. Exhaustively. The Seven Dwarfs of Menopause were uninvited guests and I was determined to learn how to shoo them. My browser history was a clear indicator of my desperation. And as I searched two things became clear: Wise Woman philosophy was the prescription I didn’t know I needed, and there wasn’t a single magazine in the Barnes & Noble racks that I could identify with. Thus the idea for Crone Magazine took root in my skull where it lay dormant for several years as I entertained 1,000 distractions and dealt with the loss of my father. But that’s a post for another day.