Writing toward her future self, Elan Pratt reflects on Black queer joy, inheritance and the possibility of meeting midlife with freedom and laughter intact.
Menopause—and the conversations surrounding it—is having a moment: Celebrities are speaking out, a commercial marketplace is booming, and state legislatures have introduced a wave of reforms over the past year. But as public attention grows, so too must our scrutiny of who benefits from this surge of visibility … and who risks being left behind.
This essay is part of the latest Women & Democracy installment, Flipping the Menopause Script Is Essential to Democracy, published in the middle of Black History Month, in partnership with Black Girls’ Guide to Surviving Menopause. This series helps flip the script, building on seven years of narrative and reproductive justice work led by Black Girls’ Guide to Surviving Menopause and commemorates “Iranti Ẹ̀jẹ̀: Remembering Blood,” a 2025 intergenerational gathering in Durham, N.C., centering marginalized menopausal communities. Menopause is not only a physical transition—it is also cultural, social and political. Recognizing its full scope is essential to advancing true health and civic equity. As one contributor reminds us: “We will not disappear with age. We will arrive.”
Editor’s note: This essay is part of “Letters to My Future Self,” a trio of reflections featured in Flipping the Menopause Script Is Essential to Democracy, our Women & Democracy series created with BGG2SM. Through personal reflection, political memory and spiritual inquiry, these letters approach menopause and midlife as thresholds—moments of reckoning, imagination and becoming. In this installment, Elan Pratt writes toward her future self, exploring Black queer joy, intergenerational healing and the power of story to carry us forward.
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When I volunteered at the Iranti Ẹ̀jẹ̀ conference in October 2025, I experienced so many women and queer people who were thinking outside of the box—so much so that the very idea of saying “outside the box” felt like a cliché. The idea of how we as Black folk can show up for ourselves and each other creatively, sexually, in community, in thought—creating our own worlds and establishing our own systems that aren’t so rigid and that make everyone feel safe—hit me deep.
It was something that I particularly wanted for my mother to experience, because no one in our family had shared their health stories with her. She went in pretty blind to all that was going on with her.
As for me, I’m soon to be 33, and until BGG2SM, I would’ve thought menopause was so far from now, that I wouldn’t have to think about what that means for me for at least another decade. That what I do right now won’t affect my experience for my future self. But now I know better.
Part of understanding menopause means thinking about my health choices right now. My mother has shared her stories with me—sometimes to the tune of oversharing!—but I appreciate that because it’s not a common practice in my family or in many other Black families. Shoutout to the Black families that did talk about menopause generation to generation, but BGG2SM exists and is so successful because it’s a rare archive of Black stories. Stories of people who lived and loved and hurt and who defied odds. One of those odds they defied was sharing.
… If trauma can be passed down, then so can joy and love and creativity and ingenuity and softness.
I often found myself in tears because it felt revolutionary to hear Black folks talking so openly about their feelings and their health and love. And hearing older Black queers talking about their sexuality and their journey of finding themselves.
It’s beautiful to see where the power of story takes us. They say write what you know, right? And what people know is the world around them. When we share ourselves, our stories, and we interrogate what things truly matter to us and we move in different ways as individuals, where we are more intentional about taking care of ourselves and each other, and if we’re in community with people, maybe we inspire and influence each other to do the same. From there, we make real shifts, not only in society, but through our bloodlines.
Some years ago, I read half an article about how trauma is passed down through DNA. That spooked the shit out of me. It made so much sense, because how do we still feel the effects of plantation slavery when so many of us did not experience it firsthand?! But if trauma can be passed down, then so can joy and love and creativity and ingenuity and softness. There are many tools that our ancestors gave us, and those tools can evolve just like our tactile, tangible technology has.
soup.
I told myself, ‘The laughter is my favorite,’ to which my future self replied, ‘The laughter remains.’
When I attended Iranti Ẹ̀jẹ̀, the writer and activist Rachel Cargle led a guided meditation enabling participants to interact with their future self.
I closed my eyes and created a portal to my 48 year-old self’s house. She was making soup in her kitchen, her hair was long and loc’d, her chest was flat.
To be clear, I currently haven’t met a soup that I like, I don’t own a home, I have a short cut, and my breasts are very large. However, I’ve wanted to loc my hair and have even been wanting to find a soup to enjoy because I enjoy the idea of repurposing ingredients. And I’ve been wanting to get rid of my breasts since they started growing on my chest.
Another thing I noticed was that the space was shared. I couldn’t see clearly who it was, but I love to think it’s my current partner, that we have built a life together. Through this mediation, I became filled with hope and excitement for my future. It feels like I kept so many of my personal commitments to myself and that made me proud of myself. Future Elan looked so at peace with herself.
Finally, we were prompted to relay a statement to ourselves. I told myself, “The laughter is my favorite,” to which my future self replied, “The laughter remains.” And with all the madness in the world, it’s incredibly comforting that the laughter will remain. That joy will still be found through struggle, as it always has. As Black folks, it’s how we have always pushed through—not just to survive, but to thrive.
