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I ran away to a Greek island. Because who wouldn't, given half the chance?

I arrived on the shores of the Aegean lugging a fair amount of baggage... and none of it Vuitton.

It wasn't just about floating in crystal clear water, reclining beneath a beach umbrella, and downing more than my fair share of Aperol Spritzes.

Though, yes, it was a bit of that. The reason I washed up on the tiny Greek island of Symi was to find words to express whatever it was that I was going through.

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My plan was to write a novel about a woman of a certain age. Think Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love for the menopausal generation.

It sure wasn't where I ended up. Because when I sat down to write, I couldn't find the words.

For a writer like me, voices in my head are where my stories begin. My characters burst into life in my imagination, fully formed. I don't create them. They're created. They whisper to me.

I learn their deepest thoughts, share their secrets. That may sound bonkers. But it's true.

At the same time, a multi-dimensional universe is created in my head that my friends move through. I can recount the smell of suntan lotion on someone's skin; the sound of a jet ski on the bay; the sharp pain from a pebble trod underfoot. When it's working, it really is that vivid.

As I spread my towel in the sun lounge that first day and took out my notebook, those voices were mute.

Confusion about what was happening to me was occupying my every waking moment. The aches... the sweats... the 3am wakeups... the incandescent raging at nothing and everything.

But the thing that distressed me the most was that menopause seemed to have scared off the most special part of me. The part that creates worlds.

As I lay under the sun, I couldn't find the voice menopause seemed to have taken from me. Image: Supplied.

Then I watched a woman with whispery silver hair stagger, bow-legged, towards the water's edge. A tall man, considerably younger than her, walked beside her, one arm around her waist.

The pair waded out until the water was waist deep. And then, she set herself free. She lay on her back and floated — eyes closed, arms outstretched — to where the aquamarine turned inky blue.

It was no miraculous transformation. Bent arms windmilled into the water as pale legs stained with purple veins kicked at the sea. She moved slowly. Painfully. But move, she did.

The young man waited on the beach for her to finish. The connection between them seemed close enough for them to be mother and son.

The relationship between a mother and her child is a remarkable thing. Pregnancy causes a peculiar psychological shift for many of us. It certainly did for me.

I no longer felt connected to my body. My job was to make sure the vehicle was serviced, topped up with the best fuel, and that it stayed on the road.

Once I reached the depot and the passenger disembarked, the bus was expected to transform into an all-night diner, with me doubling down as short-order chef, waitress, and dish-pig.

It teaches you that you no longer control your body. It belongs to another.

It doesn't help that society tells women the same thing. Our bodies are vessels we just happen to inhabit. To the world, we're incubators. Ornaments. Sex dolls. The message? We exist to have things put into us and taken out of us.

Is it any wonder that one of the most fraught relationships many of us will ever have is with our bodies? If our first decades are an amateur bout, menopause is the world's championship title fight. And it all happens while the world is telling us we're past our use-by date.

If the sexes had been reversed — if it had been a desiccated Rupert Murdoch clone swimming while a svelte young woman waited on the shore — my assumption would have been that the odd couple were exactly that. A couple.

We have no trouble imagining that an older man has sexual needs. Not so, older women.

The menopausal woman is the sports car that was all the rage back in the day. Only now you can't get parts for it, and it needs leaded fuel, so it's left under a tarp in the driveway.

The male vehicle, though, is registered with the vintage car club and stored in a climate-controlled garage to be trotted out for coastal drives in summer.

To the world, we women are incubators. Image: Supplied.

I'm sure a big part of that is relative fertility. While menopause means our ovaries are only fit for producing dust bunnies, testes pump out baby batter until their owners are six-feet-under.

Sure, with erectile dysfunction, hair loss, dad-gut, and D-cup moobs, the package is a bit worse for wear.

But nature's all, like, "don't worry... I'll leave you your sperm... so, grab yourself a Ferrari, book in for a weekly spray-tan, whack on some veneers and hair plugs, and here are some pills to get the old noodle al dente again. Just wait! You'll land yourself a second family before you can say 'child support'."

Women, though, are taught that we're valued only for our bodies and that beauty is currency.

We sculpt, paint, starve, plump, and stretch ourselves into shape.

Growing up, I learnt that appearances are everything. Strength wasn't measured by how well I navigated the storm. It was gauged by how good I looked while I was riding the waves.

Flawless skin, clear eyes, lippy, and a well-coiffed head of hair were pieces of armour I strapped on each day to go into battle.

Case in point. When I first arrived in my Greek paradise, I even (don't judge) wore makeup to the beach. Not a heap, mind you. Mascara, a bit of concealer, and some lippy.

But makeup just the same.

Yet for the woman I watched floating in the Aegean, the act of fulfilling a desire was more important to her than concern about how she looked doing it. I envied her.

The woman I met seemed more concerned with fulfilling her desires than with how she looked. Image: Supplied.

I eventually met her. She was an Italian art history professor in her eighties. Her companion was a colleague who travelled with her to help with things she could no longer do for herself.

I had been expecting a Buddha with double-X chromosomes. Instead, I found a prize-fighter.

Her mind was ferocious. But her body had fallen behind. And she hated it.

When I told her how I was feeling, she laughed until she cried. "Don't be a fool!" she said.

"You're young. You're clever. You're beautiful. Enjoy every moment. Because it will never be easier for you than it is now."

That was the day my voices returned.

Forget Eat, Pray, Love. The world that burst into life in my head was ridiculous, real, funny, and furious. It would take ten months, but it gave me Sunday Reilly is All Out of F*cks to Give.

I'd been in Greece for a week when I walked barefaced to the beach for the first time. It sounds ridiculous, but it was quite a moment for me.

I'm still buying ridiculously expensive face cream, styling my hair, and wearing red lippy.

But I'm starting to do it for me.

Not for an audience.

Meaghan Wilson Anastasios is a screenwriter and bestselling author, who has explored a Turkish ghost town with Russell Crowe, and made Sam Neill eat walrus meat. Her latest novel is called Sunday Reilly is All Out of F*cks to Give . Meaghan also writes regularly on Substack , and Instagram.

Feature Image: Supplied.