You are probably here because you would like to feel more connected to your own female intuition. And you may be wondering why she seems to come and go, why you can be so certain of something one week and unable to find the thread of it the next, and whether there is a phase of your cycle when you can hear your intuition most clearly.
There is. This post is about where your female intuition lives in your month, what she sounds like in each phase, and how to follow her once you can hear her.
Your intuition already knows what is possible. The mind is the one that goes looking for every reason it could go wrong, because the ego is frightened of failing, of being rejected and of being hurt. So the knowing comes first, and then the mind gets hold of it, and within seconds you have talked yourself into a different answer.
Learning where in my month I could trust the knowing has been the single biggest change in how I live. Not only because it told me when to listen, but because it told me when to wait. I stopped forcing decisions in the weeks when everything felt loud, and started holding them for a week or two until I reached the part of my cycle where I could see plainly again. The decisions I make there have held. Almost none of the ones I forced ever did. It guides what I eat now, who I spend time with and how I run my business, and some days I still have to pinch myself, because for a long stretch I did not believe any of this was available to me.
Being able to trust her is possible. Women's intuition is a gift, and you are not building it from nothing. You are remembering how to receive it.
Researchers who look at this call it attunement, and what they have found is the most hopeful thing I have read on the subject: it is a skill rather than a fixed trait, it responds to practice, and it can be recovered where life has interrupted it.
Tradition points to our most intuitive time being menstruation itself, the days when we bleed. The thin time, the inner winter, when the woman who knows things is closest to the surface. Every tradition that pays attention to women says something like it, and I hold it fondly, because it has matched my own experience more often than not.
Here is what I think is actually happening, and it took me years of watching my own cycle to see it.
Your luteal phase is the second half of your cycle, from ovulation until the day your period arrives. Counting day 1 as the first day of proper bleeding, that is approximately days 18 to 28 in a 28 day cycle, though your own numbers will be your own and they move about from month to month. If you are not sure where yours falls, how to track your cycle shows you how to find it.
It has a way of surfacing what the rest of the month kept underground. Things you did not have access to on day 10 arrive fully formed on day 24. The resentment you had talked yourself out of. The thing you already knew about a situation and had been too busy to feel.
It can be a great deal at once, and I think this is why so many women decide the luteal phase is the part of themselves to be managed. I have come to see it as the most honest fortnight of the month. It is not making anything up. It is showing you what was already there.
There is something in the research that makes me feel less mad about this. A woman's ability to read fear on another person's face tends to peak along with her oestrogen, which puts it around three weeks after her period, and her brain works less one-sidedly in the higher-hormone stretches, which may allow for a more whole-picture way of solving a problem. So the fortnight everybody calls hormonal is also the fortnight you are reading a room most sharply.
And this is the strange part, the one I think trips most of us up. You are taking in more than usual and reading it more accurately than usual, and it is also the hardest stretch of the month to make sense of what you are taking in. The signal is strong and so is the interference, because it all arrives with a great deal of feeling attached to it.
So I stopped trying to reach conclusions in this fortnight, and started simply collecting them instead. Noticing, writing it down, and leaving it there.
Then you bleed, and the whole thing goes quiet.
Oestrogen and progesterone both fall away, and that fall is what begins your period at all: it is the decline in those two hormones that triggers the lining to shed. For those few days the two of them sit lower than at any other point in your month.
From the inside it is like stepping out of a crowded room. Everything you were carrying all last week is still there. The noise around it has gone, that is all, and what is left is the thing itself, sitting quite plainly in front of you, and you can finally look at it without it looking back.
It arrives as knowing rather than as thinking. Something I had turned over for a fortnight would settle in a single afternoon. The conversation I had been dreading would turn out to have one sentence in it. The decision I could not make would already be made, quietly, while I was standing at the kettle waiting for it to boil.
This is the part I would want every woman to know. The wisdom arrives in your luteal phase. The seeing of it arrives when you bleed. They are two halves of one process, and if you only ever judge yourself by how you felt in the first half, you will keep concluding that you are too emotional when what you actually are is early.
This is what I have noticed in myself rather than a rule you have to match, and the day numbers are approximate, because your own cycle sets them. What matters is the order they come in, not the dates.
Nobody is at their most intuitive in one fixed phase, and I think that is the part worth holding on to. They run as a loop and each one hands to the next. Spring, your follicular phase, and summer, ovulation, gather, out in the world, taking in more than you realise. Autumn, the luteal phase, takes all of it and shows it to you from a different angle, which is exactly why that fortnight feels like so much at once. Winter, menstruation, is where it settles into being simply true. Then it comes round again. Living cyclically takes each of them properly, phase by phase.
You will see a season, a moon and a figure beside each one. That framing is more recent than it is usually made to sound, and I would rather tell you than let you assume it is ancient. The maiden, mother and crone as a set came from the poet Robert Graves in 1948, and the historian Ronald Hutton has shown that the old pedigree claimed for it does not hold up. The four-phase version most of us use now came from Miranda Gray's Red Moon in 1994, which added a fourth figure at the premenstrual end, the enchantress, who tends to get called the witch instead.
I still find it useful, and it is worth saying why. Look at which figure got put where.
The crone sits at menstruation. The old wise woman, the one who has lived long enough to simply know, arriving in the phase where everything finally goes quiet enough to see. And the witch sits in the luteal phase. The woman who notices what nobody else is willing to say and is distrusted for saying it, placed in the exact fortnight our culture calls hormonal.
Whoever arranged it that way was paying attention.
The quietest and, for me, the clearest. Both hormones are at their lowest and the noise comes down with them. This is where it lands. Everything you gathered through spring and summer, and everything autumn turned over and handed back to you at a different angle, has finally stopped moving. What is left is simply what is true. That is it.
I think it is the most important of the four, because it is the only stretch of the month where you are not also doing something with what you know. You are not gathering it, not acting on it, not turning it over. You are only seeing it. That is why anything you decide here tends to hold, and why I now take my hardest questions into this week rather than trying to answer them in the fortnight before. Then it hands you to spring, with something clear in your hands and the energy arriving to do something about it.
Oestrogen climbs and so does your appetite for new things. This is the exploring phase, and the maiden is exactly right for it, because she is not committed to anything yet and she is allowed to change her mind.
You take what became clear while you were bleeding and you start turning it over out in the world. Planting the seed. Trying the small version. Saying yes to something to find out what it is. You are also gathering far more than you notice at the time, which autumn will hand back to you later. The knowing here is forward-looking and optimistic, which makes it wonderful for starting and unreliable for judging risk. Then it hands you to summer, when whatever you have been turning over is ready to be said out loud.
The shortest of the four by a long way. Ovulation itself is a single moment, the release of the egg, and what you feel is the few days around it. Brief, bright and outward-facing, and the mother is the figure because this is where the thing gets born.
What you explored through spring is handed over to other people here. The launch. The conversation you decided to have. The announcement, the ask, the offer. You read a room well in this window and you are unusually articulate about what you want, which is why it is the phase for saying a thing out loud rather than for deciding it on your own. Then the outward turn closes, and autumn takes everything you gathered while you were out there.
The most sensitive fortnight, and the most honest. Everything you collected over the past two weeks comes back to you, and it comes back changed.
You see it from an angle you did not have at the time, which is how you suddenly notice what is off, where a boundary is missing, and what you have been talking yourself out of. This is the fortnight that edits the plan spring was so certain about. Then you bleed, and it goes quiet, and you find out which of it was true.
None of this has to fit inside a single month. Something becomes clear while you are bleeding, you explore it through spring, and by summer it is ready to be born. Or it is almost ready, and autumn shows you the flaw in it, so you carry that into your next bleed and give birth to it at the following ovulation instead. That is not losing a month. That is the edit you would never have thought of if you had pushed it out the first time.
This is the question I am asked most, and your cycle is part of the answer, because the fortnight that surfaces the most is also the one you have been taught to distrust.
I think of intuition as love and the mind as fear. Fear speaks fast, loud and in the future tense, and it repeats itself. Intuition says a thing once, calmly, and was usually already there before you started thinking. Fear wants you to decide right now. Intuition does not mind waiting while you check.
So when something surfaces in your luteal phase, you do not have to act on it that day and you do not have to dismiss it either. Write it down and take it into your bleed. What was fear tends to lose its grip by then. What was true is still sitting there, quieter and perfectly clear.
Women withdrawing to bleed is not a new idea, and it turns up in a great many places. What I did not know until I went looking is how differently those places talked about it.
The story I keep coming back to is from the Yurok, whose homelands are on the Klamath River in northern California. An anthropologist called Thomas Buckley spent years there, and what he found was that the written record and the women's own accounts did not match. The older ethnography described a menstruating woman as polluting, someone to be kept away from the house and the food. The women he actually spoke to described something else entirely.
They said a woman should take herself away at that time because it is when she is at the height of her powers, and those days are too valuable to spend on ordinary work or on other people. The days were for concentrated attention on your own life, to find out what it was for. One woman told him the menstrual shelter was like the men's sweathouse: a place you go into yourself and make yourself stronger.
Not a woman being put away. A woman going somewhere on purpose, to do something only she could do, while everyone else waited.
The Yurok are not the only ones. Among the Dine, a girl's first period is marked by the Kinaalda, a four day ceremony in which she takes on the story of Changing Woman, and her whole family and community gather for it. It is described as one of the most important events of her life, and it is still held.
Not far from the Yurok, the Hupa hold the Flower Dance when a girl first bleeds, days of singing with the whole community around her. Cutcha Risling Baldy, who is of the Hoopa Valley Tribe and wrote the book on its revival, describes it plainly as a celebration of menstruation and of women's power. It was very nearly destroyed by the Gold Rush, the missionaries and the boarding schools, and Hupa women brought it back themselves. Further east, Ojibwe teaching holds that a woman's power is at its strongest during her moon time, which is why she does not handle the pipe or take part in ceremonies that week. Not because she is diminished. Because she is already carrying more than the ceremony can hold.
And it is not only the Americas. Every year in Assam, hundreds of thousands of people travel to the Kamakhya temple for the Ambubachi Mela, which marks the goddess Kamakhya's own yearly bleed. The temple closes for three days while she rests, and farmers leave the earth unploughed, because the earth is understood to be bleeding too. Then the doors open and the whole thing is a festival. Not a woman quietly enduring something, but a goddess whose bleeding is the creative power the place is built on, and a crowd arriving to be near it. And the volume that carried Buckley's Yurok fieldwork, Blood Magic, was assembled by him and the anthropologist Alma Gottlieb precisely to take apart the idea that a universal menstrual taboo ever existed. Her own work with the Beng of Cote d'Ivoire found menstrual blood treated as a sign of fertility rather than of contamination.
I want to be careful with all of this, because none of it is my culture and it was never universal. The same practice was liberating in one place and punishing in another, and the tidy story that women everywhere were once honoured for bleeding is partly something the modern revival built for itself. The Yurok accounts are real, though, and they are the ones that stayed with me.
And the shape of it makes so much sense. Take the fortnight where everything comes up. Follow it with a few days of low hormones, no demands, other women, and nothing to do but sit with what surfaced.
We took the room away and kept the schedule.
Being able to trust your gut is not just a figure of speech, and this is the part I find most beautiful.
Psychologists studying interoception, which is our sense of what is happening inside our own body, found that the more accurately someone could feel their own heartbeat, the more their body's signals shaped how they felt and how they chose. The signal really does come up through the body. Feeling it is a skill, and skills can be practised.
In my own life the pattern was plain enough. In the stretches when I was eating in a rush, sleeping badly and running on very little, I was worse at hearing myself. When that settled, I was better at it.
So whatever brings your attention back inside your own body is worth doing, and eating is the most ordinary and frequent chance you get. That is the whole idea behind intuitive eating, which asks you to notice what your body is telling you at the table rather than what a plan told you this morning. And if your digestion is where your feelings tend to land, digestion and emotions is the other half of the same conversation.
Mine was drowned out for years. I would have told you I had no intuition at all. What I actually had was a great deal of noise: other people's opinions, everything I had read that week, and a mind very good at explaining why the quiet answer was wrong.
There is a particular sentence I said to myself for most of my twenties.
"I knew. I knew deep down and I didn't listen."
If you have said it too, hear what is inside it. It is not evidence that you have no intuition. It is evidence that yours was arriving on time, every time, and being overruled.
Three things quieted mine, and none of them is a flaw in you. Fear, which is simply louder. Too much outside input, because I would search a question, ask three friends, read four articles and end up further from an answer than when I started. And never being still long enough to hear anything at all. Most of us were handed a great deal of information about our bodies and almost nothing about our own authority over them.
What brought her back was small and ordinary, and all of it is available to you this week, for free. Choose one rather than the list.
Next time you reach for your phone to answer a question about your own life, ask yourself first and wait a full breath. You are allowed to search afterwards. The point is which voice gets to speak first.
Less input rather than more meditation. Fewer opinions, less scrolling, more walking without anything in my ears. And fewer demands, which is the part I underestimated for years. A quiet mind turns out to be mostly a consequence of a quiet schedule. When there is nothing in the diary I am dreading, answers turn up on their own. When there are five things, I cannot hear anything at all, however still I sit.
Which way to walk home. What to cook. Deciding quickly, without convening a committee, and noticing how it went. Small decisions are the safest place to practise, because the cost of being wrong is a slightly longer walk, and they are where the trust is built.
When a question comes up, write down the first thing that arrives, straight away, before you have thought about it at all. That first line is your intuition, caught before the mind gets hold of it and talks you into something else. Then reason it out underneath, properly, and take as long over it as you like. Your mind will almost certainly argue with the first line. It may tell you it sounds mad, or that you have not thought it through, and sometimes you will need to map the whole thing out before you can see what to do with it. Map it out. What matters is that the first line is still sitting there in your handwriting while you do, because more often than not you will end up back at it.
It is information rather than an instruction. You do not have to act on something because it came first. And we do not all receive it the same way, which is worth knowing before you decide yours is broken. Some women get an instant knowing. Others need to talk it out, or sleep on it, or feel it in the body before any of it makes sense. If you want to understand how yours tends to arrive, human design gives you a decision-making authority, and mine explained a great deal that I had been treating as a fault.
This is the one that changes the rest. Two months of that and you will have your own version of everything above, which is worth more than mine. How to track your cycle is the practical side of it.
When Daniel Kahneman and Gary Klein examined when intuitive judgement can be trusted, the answer turned on practice and feedback rather than on a gift you either received or did not. Your intuition is not a fixed quantity. It grows in the places you give it room.
Female intuition is the quiet, early read on a situation that arrives before your reasoning does. It is built from everything you have lived through, noticed and survived, delivered faster than your conscious mind can show its working. Researchers who study it describe it as attunement, a trained sensitivity to small signals in a room and in your own body.
In my experience it is not one phase, it is two working together. The luteal phase, approximately days 18 to 28, brings up what the rest of the month kept under the surface. Then your period arrives, oestrogen and progesterone fall away, and you can see what came up without the weight of it. Tradition points to menstruation itself for the same reason.
Fear is loud, fast and repeats itself. Intuition says a thing once, calmly, and was usually already there before you started thinking. Fear speaks in the future tense and wants you to decide right now. Intuition does not mind waiting while you check.
The two can feel similar because both are felt in the body, often in the same place. The difference is usually in the aftermath. Anxiety escalates when you attend to it and attaches to one thing after another. Intuition tends to settle once you have heard it, even when what it is telling you is unwelcome. If the feeling is constant rather than particular, that is worth taking to someone qualified rather than decoding on your own.
May you find her again, and may you let her lead you towards the life you came here to live.
With love,
Jodie Louise