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*Editor’s note: lots of well-deserved, strong language ahead!
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Let’s make one thing clear: menopause isn’t some quirky little phase where your partner gets “a bit moody” and suddenly loves wearing loose linen.

It isn’t some cute little “change of life” where she gets warm and starts buying essential oils.

No, menopause is a fucking, goddam reckoning. It’s a biological coup, where hormones go on strike, patience evaporates, and your sweet, loving partner transforms into a sleepless, rage-fueled enigma who might stab you for breathing too loud.

It’s a full-blown, body-snatching, hormone-obliterating, emotional rollercoaster from hell—and if you’re lucky enough to be standing beside a woman going through it, buckle the fuck up.

I speak from experience. I’ve been through marriages, relationships, and friendships where menopause made its grand entrance like an uninvited guest. I’ve watched intelligent, compassionate women wrestle with a hormonal hurricane while the world—especially men—stood around clueless.

“Congrats, you are now in menopause!” (She’s still hot, just not in the way you were hoping…)

See, as men, we don’t get the privilege of waking up one day feeling like a stranger has hijacked our body. We don’t get to experience our internal thermostat going full nuclear meltdown at 3 a.m. We don’t suddenly find ourselves standing in the kitchen, crying over a fucking tea bag for no apparent reason.

But our partners do. And the worst thing we can do is stand there looking confused, like a caveman watching fire for the first time, wondering why the thermostat is set to Arctic Freeze while she’s sweating her tits off in a tank top in the middle of winter.

But menopause isn’t just about hot flashes and mood swings. It’s a complete rewiring of the system. Estrogen, the magical little hormone that’s been keeping everything in balance, takes a prolonged vacation, leaving behind insomnia, anxiety, fatigue, rage, and a sex drive that flickers between “take me now” and “don’t fucking touch me” with absolutely no warning.

Men, just imagine your balls shrinking overnight while your emotions go on a hallucinogenic bender. That’s menopause, but worse.

But here’s the thing: if you want to survive this, you cannot approach menopause like a problem to be fixed. You can’t logic your way out of it, and you sure as fuck can’t “cheer her up” with suggestions like, “Maybe a little yoga would help?” If you value your life, you will learn four sacred words: Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Your only job here is to not be a fucking twat.

So what does that look like? Here is my survival guide to not being a complete cunt when your partner is struggling:

1. Do not, under any circumstances, comment on her body.

Is she gaining weight? Losing weight? Does she suddenly have a belly she never had before? That’s none of your fucking concern, so keep your observations to yourself, unless you want to get smothered in your sleep. Just shut the fuck up and listen. No, really. Just listen.

When she says she’s exhausted, don’t tell her she “just needs some fresh air.” When she’s in a rage, don’t tell her to calm down or try to explain why she shouldn’t be. Just nod, pour her a glass of wine (or a chamomile tea, depending on the mood swing), and accept that sometimes, she just needs to vent without you turning it into a fucking TED Talk.

2. Mood swings are real.

She can go from “I love you” to “I will set you on fire” in under five seconds. Do not engage. Do not attempt to explain why she might be overreacting. Just nod, look concerned, and offer snacks. The last thing she needs is you pointing out what’s already making her want to punch a hole through the kitchen plaster boards

3. Sex is going to change.

Some days, she’ll be horny as hell and want it more than ever. Other days, the idea of penetration will sound about as appealing as a fucking tax audit. Remember: it’s not about you. It’s about her body rewriting the rules. Be patient, be kind, and for the love of all things holy, do not take it personally.

4. The thermostat is no longer yours to control.

You’re cold? Put on a fucking sweater. She’s hot? Open a fucking window. This is not a debate. Learn to read the room. If she’s standing in front of an open fridge, fanning herself, while muttering “I swear to God…” now is the time to slowly back away and make yourself useful. Maybe do some dishes. Maybe clean something. This is not the moment to ask, “What’s for dinner?” or suggest she should “just calm down and relax.” This is the moment to tread lightly, be useful, or, as I find most effective, just fuck off for a nice long walk or go hide in another room .

5. The best response to “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” is:

“That’s okay, darling, I’ve got you.” Not, “Maybe you should fucking see someone” or, “It’s probably just stress.” Or even worse, “It’s probably the menopause.” Support her like the Khaleesi she is. Menopause isn’t some tragic downfall—it’s a transformation. She’s stepping into a new version of herself, one that doesn’t have time for bullshit or people-pleasing. This is a woman who has spent decades holding things together, and now she’s figuring out how to hold herself together in a whole new way. That’s fucking incredible. Respect it.

So here’s the bottom line, menopause isn’t her problem—it’s your test. A test of patience, compassion, empathy, and whether you value your life and relationship just enough to not say dumb shit at the wrong time.

She’s not broken, she’s evolving. It’s your opportunity to show up like a decent, loving human being. To be the kind of partner who doesn’t run for the hills when things get all emotionally fucked up. Because let’s face it, she’s been putting up with your shit for years. The least you can do is return the favour. And if you play your cards right, you just may have a winning hand.

After all the late-night sweats, the hormonal rage tornadoes, and the mood swings that make a demon exorcism look like a fucking bedtime story, she doesn’t just survive—she fucking ascends. She comes out the other side like a Crone Yoda oracle: stronger, wiser, and completely done with other people’s bullshit. She’s got a PhD in spotting fuckery, a new lease on life, and exactly zero patience for whiny man-child bullshit.

Which brings me here: I’ve made it this far without being stabbed with a kitchen utensil, so regard myself as officially trained in the art of not being a complete cunt. But you mustn’t get cocky, because she remembers every fucking thing you may have said or done during the hormone apocalypse—and trust me, she’s saving that fucking ammo for just the right moment.

Hot sweats anyone??

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