Sarci-Sense: Hormones, Homework, and the Hot Flash of Truth

Somewhere between your child’s first tantrum and their first eye-roll, time decided to skip ahead. You were once the cool parent who knew all the cartoon theme songs. Now, you’re the irritating adult who dares to breathe in the same room while they’re scrolling.

Welcome to the chaos of middle-aged parenting, where you’re raising teenagers while quietly Googling whether your sudden crankiness is from low magnesium or early menopause. Or worse, both.

We are, quite literally, managing hormones on both ends. Theirs are charging ahead like caffeinated puppies on a sugar high. Ours? Tiptoeing out the door, muttering about fatigue and joint pain. It’s like living in a hormonal pressure cooker, except no one knows which timer is going off, or whose mood swing we’re reacting to anymore.

Ask any middle-aged parent of a teen today, and they’ll tell you: we’re not raising children; we’re surviving tech-powered beings who believe your existence is a personal attack on their vibe. These are kids who will explain quantum physics on YouTube but forget to flush. They’re passionate about climate change but can’t find their own socks. And while we’re impressed, somewhere deep inside, we’re also terrified.

Because we’re not the same parents our parents were. Our parents didn’t ask us how we felt, they told us. They didn’t offer therapy, they offered turmeric milk and a hard stare. They didn’t co-watch anything with us unless it was Doordarshan. But us? We’re woke. We ask our kids if they want to talk. We buy books on adolescent psychology. And then we spend 45 minutes convincing them to come out of their room for dinner.

Meanwhile, our own bodies are staging revolts. Perimenopause sneaks in like a WhatsApp group notification—persistent, slightly alarming, and impossible to mute. Sleep disappears. Patience thins. Hair follows. You snap at your teenager, not because they were rude (they were), but because you haven’t slept properly in three months and your bones are creaking like vintage furniture.

The irony is delicious: we used to dread “the talk” with our parents. Now we’re having parallel “talks” with both our children and our doctors. One involves explaining consent and the importance of digital boundaries; the other includes asking if it’s normal to sweat through your clothes in January.

And in the middle of all this? Real life. Work emails. Deadlines. The rising cost of vegetables. The house help cancelling again. And the never-ending question: what’s for dinner? No matter your gender or age, if you’re a middle-aged adult in an Indian household, you are The Designated Worrier™. And teenagers are The Designated Shruggers.

You ask your child how school went.
“Fine.”
You ask about the project deadline.
“I submitted it… I think.”
You suggest going for a walk together.
“Can we not?”
Meanwhile, you’re just trying to digest the flaxseed smoothie and wondering why your knee clicks every time you get up.

It’s not all doom and gloom. There are moments, fleeting, fragile, and full of grace. When they come sit next to you without being asked. When they laugh at your joke, genuinely. When they teach you how to make a playlist or show you how to crop a photo. When they defend you in front of someone. That moment, right there? That’s what keeps you going through 200 unread messages, one missed PTM, and the quiet devastation of seeing a grey hair on your eyebrow.

Let’s be honest, teenagers are confused, overwhelmed, and increasingly fragile in a world that demands polish. They’re flooded with images of perfection, yet no manual on how to be human. And us? We’re navigating change too, our bodies are unfamiliar, our roles shifting. Some of us are also dealing with ageing parents, tricky marriages, or workplace battles, while our internal battery flashes “low” far too often.

The middle-aged parents of today are not just caregivers. We’re emotional shock absorbers. We’re therapists without degrees. We’re human Google search bars for questions that start with “Is it normal…” and end with either a biology doubt or an existential crisis.

And in the midst of all this, we’re also trying to reclaim pieces of ourselves. A yoga class here. A nostalgia playlist there. Sometimes, just the joy of drinking a cup of tea without interruption. We yearn for peace—not the Himalayan kind, just the kind where no one is yelling, “Where’s my charger?!”

So what do we do?

We laugh, mostly. We survive on sarcasm, shared glances with fellow parents, and the quiet comfort of knowing we’re not alone. We accept that we’ll never fully understand their memes, just as they’ll never understand why we can’t throw away the yellowed family photo albums. We build bridges, through awkward hugs, shared fries, and the occasional truce declared over pizza.

Because parenting teenagers while managing your own hormonal chaos is like dancing to two different soundtracks, one from a moody indie band, the other from a 90s remix of your own fading energy. But every now and then, those soundtracks align. And for a moment, just a moment, the rhythm feels just right.

That’s middle age. That’s parenting now. That’s the sweet, exasperating, unforgettable music of this messy chapter.

And if nothing else, we always have one thing in common: neither of us knows what we’re doing. But we’re showing up anyway.

Preferably with snacks. And nap time.

Click to read other stories from the Sarci-Sense series