Faceplants, Frozen Peas and the Realisation I’m Not Invincible

There’s nothing quite like smashing your face into a bathtub first thing in the morning to make you reassess your life choices.

The morning of the private view for the Not My Type exhibition in London, the very evening my artwork about women’s health and menopause was going on display, I managed to have what can only be described as a deeply undignified encounter in my daughter's bathroom.

One leg was already in the bath. The other was mid-transition. And then, without warning, my foot slipped.

Now, in my younger years, I imagine my reflexes might have kicked in. A graceful arm extension perhaps. A stabilising manoeuvre worthy of a middle-aged ninja. But no. My hands failed to react with anything resembling urgency, and I faceplanted the back of the bath with all the elegance of a dropped sack of potatoes.

For a few seconds, I just sat there stunned. Slightly winded. Trying to understand what exactly had happened. Then I felt it.

Warmth.

My nose was bleeding. Profusely.

It hit me: What if I’ve broken my nose?

The horror unfolded rapidly in my mind. Me arriving at the exhibition opening looking less like an exhibiting artist and more like someone who’d lost a fight outside Wetherspoons. Swollen nose. Black eyes. Guests politely pretending not to stare while clutching warm white wine.

Shock set in. Tears followed. Alongside quite a lot of blood.

So there I sat, clutching frozen peas to my face, wondering whether I had officially entered what I can only describe as "old lady territory". And I say this with affection and respect, because I vividly remember being in hospital in my early forties and noticing that almost every woman on the ward was there because of a fall. Broken wrists. Broken hips. Broken ankles.

At the time, I remember thinking: Why does getting older involve so much falling over?

Back then, I was blissfully unaware of perimenopause. Ironically, I was probably deep in it, exhausted, foggy, battling relentless UTIs that nobody seemed able to properly explain, while consultants scratched their heads in confusion.

And now? Here I was, twenty years later, one slippery bath away from becoming a cautionary tale.

Which brings me to the conversation I recently had with my daughter, Lily.

“Have you booked that Reformer Pilates class yet?” she asked.

I had not.

And honestly? I’ve been avoiding it. Not because I don’t know exercise is important, particularly strength training in midlife, but because my motivation has quietly wandered off somewhere and refuses to return my calls.

But lying there with frozen peas pressed against my face, I could practically hear my future self sighing dramatically in the background:

"Come on, Sharon. When are you going to get your arse in gear?"

Because here’s the thing nobody tells you about midlife: strength training suddenly stops being about trying to look good in jeans and starts becoming about maintaining your dignity while entering a bathtub.

Perimenopause has a sneaky way of disconnecting us from our physical confidence. Energy dips. Motivation disappears. Joints complain. And somewhere between work, family, hormones and exhaustion, looking after ourselves slides quietly down the priority list.

But maybe renewal, real renewal, isn’t found in dramatic reinventions. Maybe it starts with smaller things. Booking the Pilates class. Building strength. Looking after the future version of yourself before she’s forced to cushion her injuries with supermarket vegetables.

Thankfully, my nose survived. My pride is still in recovery.

And the exhibition went ahead without me resembling an extra from Casualty.

Small mercies.