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sometimes periods are painful, plus bird sounds are my new gym playlist

sometimes periods are painful, plus bird sounds are my new gym playlist

on prolonged uterine intensity, lacking motivation, and feeling like I'm treading the variable depths of progress

Laura Winberry
March 17, 2026 • Estimated Reading Time: 7 minutes

gm and welcome to issue 61. Last week was links. This week is… not that.

This week we’re dipping a toe into how good the new website is starting to look (way better than the single, shitty landing page it currently exists as), comms with a winery in the valley (that have me feeling the “I want to get paid” itch), parties for people who aren’t dead yet (but will be soon), and an unexpected trip to Ashland.

Shall we?

when your homepage grows tf up

I hadn’t planned on this, but, in a very on-brand move, I’m going to overshare here for a second. If for nothing else, to give a little bit of framing for today’s newsletter and, perhaps, tether my experience to yours—with a piece of twine. Or a shoestring.

Oh, and perhaps—because it’s what the act of writing and the act of naming have the power to do—help shift something. Even just a hair.

Here are the things I’m feeling rn, and why I think I’m feeling them: a little sad, annoyingly unmotivated, and kinda tired.

Long story short, I have a history of pretty debilitating periods (yes, let’s normalize talking about menstruation in every setting, including “founder’s journals”). In the past year, two of my periods nearly sent me to the ER. Without going into detail, I imagine they felt like what child birth must feel like. Only there’s no child at the end of the event (thankfully). Just someone who’s both wrecked and elated from one of the best sensations in the world: the sudden absence of searing pain.

I talked with a good girlfriend, I talked with a new gyno, I talked with Chat. While it turns out I may or may not have endometriosis, having it or not is beside the point. Pricey out-of-pocket-expense tests could tell me, definitively, but my gyno says she’d treat me the same regardless.

Cool, I’d rather use that money on cute fits. Treat away.

The first line of treatment is to go on hormonal birth control. Which I haven’t been on since my twenties, and which used to fuck with my emotions big time. So, I’m now on week three of a continuous low-dose hormone cocktail (estrogen + progestin). Meaning I’m skipping the placebo week in order to not have a period in hopes of not experiencing pass-out-level pain every month.

I’m told I need to give this cocktail three months before I can know if it’s the right fit for me. Weeks one and two were great—week three I’m feeling a little sad, annoyingly unmotivated, and kinda tired.

My brain thinks my body should be bleeding right now but it’s not—there’s a disconnect that needs catching up to, some phantom cramping, a kilter that’s a little off. I’m open to the fact that the only constant is change—cautiously optimistic that this could molt into something better.

this is the risograph print I bought @ The Secret Room during my most recent trip to PDX. upon first seeing it, I laughed aloud before feeling a deep sense of nostalgia—growing up, we watched The Simpsons from the couch as a family; I named one set of gerbils Itchy & Scratchy; I currently have two cats and one is named Bart.

Wow. Who the fuck knew I’d be writing about insane period pain in order to introduce inOregon’s newly developing website lewk? Très chic, no?

While I’m here essay-ing about all this shit (which is making me feel significantly better already), the inOregon homepage has entered its young adult era of sophistication, clarity, and aesthetic resonance. Here are three screenshots of what that looks like—I can’t wait to build out and share the rest with you next week.

not a serif kinda gal, but…

some weeks hit different

Remember how just two weeks ago I sent out twenty cold DMs asking people to fill out my survey? Within 24 hours, my response rate was at 25%. 72 hours later it hit 75%. I was buzzing about the whole thing and thought I’d finally caught a glimpse of the tiny speck of light at the end of the data collection tunnel.

Alas, I was mistaken.

Yesterday, on my high stallion, I sent out not twenty but twenty-five cold DMs. As of rn, more than 24 hours later, I have had zero responses.

I don’t have much to say about the swing (read: unexpected failure). Instead, I’ll just let out a loud-ass what the fuck into the void. Not dissimilar to the one I let out while inside my little blue Subaru this weekend, after receiving a parking ticket for going over the 15min limit while I was busy printing out artwork of my friend’s dead dog.

Some days/weeks/months you’re riding super fucking high. Others you’re simply not. I am reminded, again and again, of what Heraclitus knew way back when: stability is illusory, buddy—the only constant is change.

improv works, or: how to add 5lb to a set when you’re at home instead of at the gym

Before I say that's it for issue 61, let me just say this: I highly recommend queing up Morning Birds Chirping for your next gym workout playlist. I hit play on this bad bitch yesterday, before starting some deadlift working sets, and it made the session (not to mention the rest of the day) feel chill as fuck.

Thanks, birds. I love you.

And thank you too, for reading along while I spill about blood and pain and homepages and life. Until next week.

xoxo,

PS: Subscribe now if you're into this messy build-in-public energy. Miss the last issue? It’s right here. Also literally none of this is ever advice. I’m sharing what I learn through Babe, and perhaps you’ll learn from my mistakes. Hopefully, maybe, who knows, ily.