The Word That Disappeared

I didn't recognize myself—and not in a subtle way.

I'm someone who has always been sharp, organized, and emotionally steady. I could handle a lot, juggle a lot, be a lot. And then, slowly, that version of me started to feel out of reach. I couldn't access the part of my brain that kept my drive and focus in balance.

My thoughts felt slower. My patience felt shorter. My emotions felt… louder. Unpredictable.

And what made it even harder was that, from the outside, everything still looked normal. But inside, it felt like I was constantly trying to keep up with a version of myself I used to be—the version I knew I was capable of being.

For context, I am a dental hygienist, and at the start of perimenopause—which was already wreaking havoc—I was also managing a staff of 25 and overseeing operations at a large dental office. My clinical hours were steady, one patient an hour, and in many ways, hygiene is routine. Every appointment is different, but the scope is familiar. Conversations with patients and oral hygiene instruction are a major part of what I do.

Dental hygiene vocabulary hasn't changed much in the last 20 years. So when I found myself unable to articulate a single word—a word I had used at least five times a day for two decades—it was noticeable.

The word was sulcus—the space that surrounds the base of each tooth. Not a common word unless you're a dental hygienist. But in my world, it's basic. Foundational. Something you learn within the first month of school.

The first time it happened, I brushed it off. I was busy. Distracted. My mind must have been elsewhere.

But then it started happening more often. Words I used every day just… disappeared. Names of patients, friends—gone, like they had slipped into a place I couldn't reach.

That's when the fear set in.

I started to wonder if something was seriously wrong. A brain tumor, maybe. Something that was preventing my brain from functioning the way it always had. My processing speed felt slower—at work, at home, everywhere.

When I tried to talk about it, the responses were familiar. The same kind I had heard when I was struggling with my body:

• We're getting older.
• You need more sleep.
• You're managing a lot—it's normal.
• Maybe you need a girls' weekend.
• Try magnesium.
• Drink more coffee.
• Stop drinking coffee.

On and on it went.

It felt like I was talking to a wall.

I started to second-guess myself. The expectations I had always held—being able to help run a business, care for my patients, and be fully present with my family—suddenly felt unrealistic. Maybe I had been overestimating myself all along. Maybe this was my limit.

I even started to believe that the people around me just had higher-functioning brains—and that mine simply couldn't keep up.

That kind of self-doubt is quiet at first. But over time, it becomes heavy. Debilitating. Depressing.

Two years after the brain fog began, I finally found something I hadn't had before: an explanation. And with it, validation.

It came from a PBS documentary: The M Factor.