When Lady D and I first met, Reagan was still in the White House, cassette tapes were the standard for music, and the word “menopause” existed somewhere in the dusty corners of my brain alongside other terms from high school health class that I had never needed to recall. To me, menopause was little more than a vague idea—a brief hormonal hiccup that caused some hot flashes, maybe a few mood swings, and then disappeared like a summer thunderstorm. I had no real understanding of what it meant, no appreciation for how deeply it could affect a person, and no clue that it could reshape not only the life of the woman going through it but also the lives of those close to her. Our friendship has now spanned thirty-six years, through every possible life stage and curveball. We have celebrated milestones, survived illnesses, mourned losses, and kept each other afloat in moments when one of us felt ready to sink. We have survived bad haircuts, questionable wardrobe choices, and disagreements over pizza toppings without so much as a dent in our bond. But nothing—absolutely nothing—has taught me quite as much about patience, empathy, and the importance of speaking up as her journey through menopause.
Men do not get a handbook for this. In fact, we barely get a sticky note. Somewhere between the basics of puberty in middle school and the occasional public-service ad about prostate health, women’s healthcare became a locked file in a cabinet most men never even know exists. We are left to piece together scraps of information from sitcom punchlines, awkward overheard conversations, or outdated stereotypes. For many of us, menopause sounds like a short-lived inconvenience—something that makes someone sweaty and cranky for a few weeks and then ends quietly. That assumption is wrong. Dead wrong. Lady D, being who she is, has been very open about her experience. She does not sugarcoat it. She does not pretend it is a small thing. She has let me see behind the curtain, and what I have seen has completely changed the way I think about women’s health, about friendship, and about the role men can play when someone they love is going through this transition.
At first, I thought my role was to simply be a witness. Menopause was happening to her, not to me, and I believed the best thing I could do was stay out of the way unless she needed me. I saw myself as the quiet, respectful friend—ready to listen, quick to provide chocolate or a sympathetic nod, but otherwise uninvolved. It turns out that silence is not neutral. In the theater of menopause, being the silent partner is like sitting in the passenger seat of a car during a storm and refusing to look at the map. The journey is harder, longer, and lonelier because you are choosing not to engage. The truth is, even though I am not the one whose body is navigating hormonal upheaval, I am still in the blast radius. I feel the temperature of the room change—sometimes literally, when the windows fly open in January and a fan is running at full speed—and I see the shifts in energy, mood, and comfort. My silence, I came to realize, was less about respect and more about hiding behind my ignorance. I was afraid to say the wrong thing, so I said nothing at all.
The turning point came one evening when we were on the phone and she was explaining how her symptoms had been particularly rough lately. I made the mistake of saying, “Well, at least it’s almost over, right?” The pause on the other end of the line was long enough for me to know I had stepped into dangerous territory. Then she said, very calmly, “Oh, Jay… no.” That moment cracked open everything I thought I knew. She explained that menopause is not a straight line from point A to point B. It is non-linear. Symptoms can ebb and flow, disappear for months, and then return with a vengeance. Some women’s symptoms last a couple of years, but for others, they can continue for a decade or more. I had been thinking of menopause as a sprint; for her, it was a marathon with unpredictable detours and uphill climbs. That was the moment I stopped being quiet and started being curious.
The first thing I wish I had known is that menopause is not just in her head. Before, I might have silently wondered if mood swings were exaggerated or if hot flashes were simply an inconvenience. Now I understand that these changes are rooted in real, measurable biology. Hormonal fluctuations—especially shifts in estrogen and progesterone—can affect temperature regulation, sleep patterns, mood stability, cognitive function, and even joint health. These are not overreactions; they are physical realities. The second lesson is that hormones are a much bigger deal than I realized. Men talk about testosterone as if it is the defining factor in our lives, but rarely give estrogen the same respect. The truth is, the hormonal turbulence of menopause is not a gentle glide toward retirement age; it is more like hitting sudden turbulence at thirty thousand feet. These shifts ripple through every system of the body, influencing cardiovascular health, bone density, brain chemistry, and more. This explains why Lady D can feel perfectly fine one day and utterly unlike herself the next.
The third lesson—and the one that makes me angriest—is that education on this subject is shockingly inadequate. Lady D has told me repeatedly that she had to teach herself about menopause because no one, not her doctors and certainly not our education system, provided a clear, comprehensive picture of what to expect. For men, the information gap is even wider. Without knowledge, we default to stereotypes, and without understanding, we offer less empathy and less effective support. It is not just a gap; it is a chasm that leaves women feeling isolated and men ill-equipped to help.
Menopause is not only about physical symptoms. If I had to describe the emotional side, it would be “partly sunny with a high chance of unpredictable storms.” Lady D has always been an expressive, passionate person, but menopause has brought emotional waves of a different magnitude—sometimes reflective and gentle, sometimes sharp and overwhelming. The emotional weight is not simply “moodiness.” It can be exhaustion from constant sleep disruption, frustration from a lack of control over her own body, or grief over the symbolic end of one stage of life and the uncertain start of another. From the outside, it is tempting to focus on what is visible—flushed cheeks, sudden removal of sweaters, or the desk fan that follows her everywhere. But the deeper, invisible emotional shifts often take the greater toll. My role as a friend became less about fixing anything and more about listening without minimizing what she was going through.
When I began to step out of the silent partner role, I learned that supporting someone through menopause does not require grand gestures. It requires presence, empathy, and the willingness to learn. I started asking open-ended questions like “How are you really doing today?” instead of assuming I knew. I read articles, asked her to explain things I did not understand, and paid attention when she told me about new symptoms or challenges. I made an effort to remember what she had said before so I would not make her repeat herself. These small changes made a difference, not because I had suddenly become an expert, but because I was showing her that her experience mattered to me enough for me to engage with it fully.
One of my favorite—and funniest—memories from this journey came during a brutally cold winter. Lady D and I were in her living room, bundled in sweatshirts and blankets. Out of nowhere, she kicked off the blanket, threw open the window, and said, “If I do not get some Arctic air in here, I’m going to spontaneously combust.” Two minutes later, she was wrapped up again muttering, “Who let the freezer door open?” We laughed so hard, but that moment stuck with me. It was a perfect example of the unpredictability of menopause—how quickly her comfort level could swing from one extreme to the other—and how humor could be a pressure valve in what could otherwise be a frustrating situation. It taught me that part of support is finding ways to laugh together, even when the topic is something serious.
If I could offer advice to other men, it would be this: learn about women’s healthcare. Do not wait until someone you love is already in the midst of menopause to discover how unprepared you are. Ask questions without prying, believe what she tells you about her symptoms, and take responsibility for your own education so she is not your only source of information. Above all, be patient. Menopause does not follow a script, and neither will she. Your willingness to adapt alongside her will mean more than you realize. And while this is about menopause, it is also part of a bigger picture—men have a role to play in advocating for better education, better medical research, and better healthcare access for women at every stage of life. Menopause is just one of many areas where silence and ignorance cost us all.
Menopause is not just her story. If you care about someone going through it, you are part of the story whether you acknowledge it or not. For thirty-six years, Lady D has been one of my constants. Now, one of my constants is this: I will never again be the silent partner when it comes to women’s health. Silence may feel safe, but it helps no one. Show up, speak up, and be better—not because you have to, but because she deserves nothing less.
