A Letter To My Partner

‍Dear Partner,

Sit down. Don’t worry, this won’t take long. Although, fair warning, it may explain quite a lot. I’m going through menopause.

And before you picture me lying on a chaise longue, wafting myself with a silk fan and declaring the end is near, let me stop you there. Menopause is not one long hot flush and a dramatic sigh.

It is, in fact, a full-scale hormonal rebrand that nobody asked for.

Let’s begin with my body, which has recently decided to freelance.

I exercise. I box. I train. I move. And yet some mornings I wake up feeling like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a folding chair. My joints ache for no obvious reason. Nothing is broken. Nothing is wrong. My estrogen has simply packed up, left the building, and taken my shock absorbers with it.

So no, I am not “letting myself go.” My hormones have fully gone off script. My skin itches for reasons known only to the universe.
And the weight situation? Rude. Really rude.
For most of my life, I never carried weight around my waist. Now my body has decided that my midsection is where it would like to store its emergency reserves, despite regular exercise and what feels like surviving on hope and grilled chicken.

None of this is life-threatening. All of it is deeply annoying.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Now, my brain...You know I used to be sharp. Very sharp. I could remember birthdays, passwords, shopping lists, where the keys were, and the name of that actor from that film we watched on our first date. Now I walk into a room with purpose, confidence, and absolutely no clue why I’m there.

I stop mid-sentence because the word I need has vanished like a politician after a scandal, I open the fridge and stare into it as though the answer to life is somewhere behind the almond milk.              

This is not dementia. This is not me losing the plot. This is brain fog, like my brain has too many tabs open and no idea where the music is coming from. It is not dangerous. It is, however, annoying.

And then there’s the mental noise. Not misery. Not mayhem. Just… endless internal chatter. Like I’ve somehow been added to a WhatsApp group and it never stops pinging. Worse, I can’t even leave it, because apparently I started the group.

Now, mood-wise, I should say this in fairness: I’m actually pretty level. No dramatic meltdowns. No smashing plates. No hurling myself onto the fainting couch because someone bought the wrong yoghurt. That, frankly, is a blessing.

So yes, I’m stable. But I’m not a saint.

So when I seem a bit off, a quick “You okay?” goes a long way. You do not need to fix everything. Just don’t stand there like customer support has transferred you three times.

And while we’re here, let’s talk about sex. I still love you. I still fancy you. But my libido has recently gone missing, and frankly the police have no leads. This is not personal. It is not a rejection. It is not because you started mansplianing whilst we’re watching a tv show. It is hormonal, it is common, and at times spontaneous flirtation feels about as likely as me taking up parkour.

Romance is welcome. Pressure not so much. The good news is there are things that help, and I am onto them. The even better news is that patience, kindness, and a sense of humour are wildly attractive. So what do I need from you? Honestly, not much.

Because here’s the truth: This isn’t the beginning of the end. This is just a transition. A strange, sweaty, foggy, occasionally baffling transition, but a transition nonetheless.

Women do come through this. And quite a lot of us come through with less tolerance for nonsense, better boundaries, and a much clearer sense of what matters. 

I’m still me. Just warmer, wiser, slightly foggier, and far less interested in other people’s nonsense.

With love,

Your Partner

Still here. Still fabulous. Still worth it.

XXX

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