I’ve finally joined the cool girls on HRT. It honestly does feel a bit like that, for which I thank the many mid-life activists, academics, healthcare professionals and influencers who have helped to shift perspectives over the past few years. Obviously, women have been talking about their bastard hormones for ever, and particular respect and gratitude are due to those who did so decades before the more accepting present. But being perimenopausal has had a serious glow up.
It’s being reframed as your prime – less vaginal atrophy and incontinence, more Davina McCall with a six-pack and Bridget Christie in biker leathers (in her meno-comedy The Change). There is more media coverage, more high-profile women discussing their experiences and, inevitably, more commodification: once Goop starts targeting libido supplements at your phase of life, it has become, if not aspirational, at least not something you have to whisper about on the top deck of the bus, in case Alan Bennett might be eavesdropping. I doubt I would have written about this here five years ago, so something has definitely changed.
I’m 48 and have looked on wistfully over recent years as women of my acquaintance entered their six-pack phase. It has been inspiring and, honestly, a little envy-inducing. Indeed, what finally pushed me to act – rather than the anxiety that made opening my computer feel like having my ribcage pulled from my chest by a panther, the insomnia, or the confusion that makes me write more slowly than a medieval monk – was Nina Stibbe’s forthcoming diaries. I love Nina Stibbe and she loves HRT; it stopped her “chanting Oh God Oh God Oh God quietly under my breath the whole time”, apparently. Sold. I booked a GP appointment (not Gwyneth Paltrow, possibly the only person harder to see than a British general practitioner in 2023).
And not before time. When the doctor asked why I was there, I couldn’t form a simple sentence (I think I said something like “brain, bad she, I maybe, hormone?” then stared at her pleadingly) and my anxiety-induced blood pressure was worrisome. I got my HRT.
So now I have two tubes of Oestrogel I’m flashing about faux-casually like a Chanel Les Exclusifs fragrance. I say that because in the past few years, HRT supply chain issues have given these medications the cachet of an exceptionally limited edition (while Viagra is … let me check my notes … now available over the counter). Meno-chic would be aided by cooler packaging and delivery mechanisms, I feel (a sleek HRT vape? Shots? A chic pendant full of powder snorted with a tiny spoon?), but even the basic pump-action tube makes me feel I have entered a new, exciting phase of life.
It’s only been two weeks, so presumably I’m not experiencing the full effect yet. Somehow I haven’t developed Davina’s abs; is that next month? Even so, it feels like crunch time because for several years, I’ve attributed all my angry, confused and irrational impulses to my depleted oestrogen reserves. Once those are replenished, what is left is my midlife personality. Time to confront the question: menopausal or just an arsehole?
It’s not looking great so far. I am less anxious. Or rather, I still think catastrophe is imminent, but don’t care as much. However, that seems to be where the behavioural benefits end. Am I still in an absolute seething rage about the bins? Very much so. Has there been a decline in passive-aggressive conduct around cupboard organisation or lunch detritus on worktops? Not noticeably. Have I phased out hissed phrases such as “in this house” and “Why does no one?” Nope. Do I still jab Capital FM off in a fury, saying, “How on earth can you listen to this?” Within a nanosecond.
Worse, when my unreasonable behaviour causes confrontation, I can’t attribute it self-righteously to my hormones, a serious side-effect I hadn’t anticipated. Midlife is a period of self-discovery and reappraisal, and the self I’m discovering and reappraising seems to still need a ton of work. It’s just HRT, I suppose, not magic.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
