Adventures in HRT

Experiments in softness

I can attest to Joni Mitchell’s idiom, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, though probably not for the reason you think.

A little over a year ago, I decided it was time to talk to my naturopath and doctor about the myriad of symptoms I was experiencing. I suspected I’d entered that fun, liminal phase otherwise known as perimenopause — the prequel no one asked for and the plot twist Gen X never saw coming.

One of the most noticeable symptoms for me was the shift in mood. I felt far more reactive ragey about things that barely fazed me before. And I was depressed.

This is where Joni comes in.

I didn’t know I was depressed. Not really. I thought I was just tired, distracted, burnt out, whatever the acceptable word for unravelling quietly is these days. But it was depression. Slow, sneaky, and patient. It moved in while I had my back turned, until one day I realized I’d been living under a wet blanket. That’s when I considered giving HRT a go, and it was only when the fog lifted that I could see how dark things had really been.

Before I go any further, a quick note: this is just my experience. I’m not saying every woman should jump on HRT or that it’s a magic fix. Bodies, hormones, and lives are wildly individual things. What worked for me might not be your thing.

Act I: Progesterone, the Soft Launch

I started with micronized progesterone alone for the first year, mostly because I’m super sensitive to anything I put into or onto my body. I could probably lick an Advil and obliterate a headache. (I haven’t tried it, but the suggestion has been made more times than I can count.) I don’t use scented detergent because artificial fragrance often triggers my asthma.

Needless to say, I wasn’t rushing to slather myself in both progesterone and estrogen just yet. It’s also not unusual to begin progesterone-only in early perimenopause since it’s the first hormone to take a nosedive, and that drop can cause chaos.

So, I experimented: doses, delivery methods, and timing. Some phases were whack — unpredictable, super heavy periods (iron is my best friend), groggy mornings, sluggish digestion, and brain fog that wouldn’t quit.

But then my sleep turned blissful. Like, actual-through-the-night, drool-on-the-pillow levels of good. I’m sure the rest helped my mood, but it didn’t explain the lift. Something deeper had shifted.

I was grounded again. Inch by inch, I climbed out of the hole, and for the first time in years, I could laugh, like, really laugh. A full-on giggle fit over something completely mundane. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that much unfiltered joy.

Then life, being life, decided to test my resilience. Things fell apart. I spiraled, Googled, Reddit-ed, ChatGPT-ed (don’t judge me), and went back to my naturopath and doctor. That’s when I decided to add Estrogel.

Act II: The Estrogel Era

Every morning, I pump this clear gel out of a container, smooth it across my inner thighs, and do my best not to transfer it to my clothes or another living being while it dries.

At first, it felt weird rubbing hormones into my skin. (My progesterone comes in pill form, which somehow feels less intimate(?).) But soon after starting, I noticed a massive shift in my mood.

Suddenly, I could observe myself in real time. The me who would normally lose patience or spiral was still there, but she had space. A pause button. A breath. I could see my reactions and decide what to do with them.

Now, about a month in, I can take things in stride. I can see that about 97.9% of my life is out of my control at any given time (give or take, depending on the situation), and since I can only control how I respond, life feels…lighter. I have a mind that knows it can choose what to feel instead of just reacting.

Act III: Seeing Myself Through New Eyes

The most interesting part of this whole adventure is the perspective. I keep comparing the different versions of myself:

There’s 20-year-old me, hormones running the show, convinced that love was supposed to feel like high drama, big feelings, all-consuming. (If Love Is Blind had been around back then, I probably would’ve understood why everyone’s so desperate to find “the one.” Is it love they’re after, or just their hormones calling the shots?) I learned the hard way that chemistry can masquerade as connection.

There’s 30-something me, still ruled by hormones but with a bit more self-awareness creeping in. I was starting to figure out who I was outside of relationships, outside of the noise. I still made choices from the gut (and sometimes the chaos), but I was learning to hear my own voice in the mix. There was more curiosity than clarity, more experimenting than knowing, but something in me had shifted. I wasn’t chasing the drama anymore. I was starting to notice what felt steady.

There’s pre-HRT me, dulled down and detached. The things that used to light me up just…didn’t anymore. It started as a low hum in my late 30s, then grew louder with COVID and my 40s. Maybe it was the perfect storm (hormones, stress, life), but at some point, I realized my body was whispering the next step: pay attention.

Then there’s me today, listening to a mix of genres and decades, walking through the city, feeling like I’m gliding again. Music has always been a portal for me, sometimes soothing, sometimes energizing, always honest. And now, I can feel it again, fully. Is everything I’m listening to going to change my life? No. Is it all earth-shattering? Absolutely not. But you know what? I’m listening to what feels good. And after sitting in a dark hole for years, that feels like home in my body.

Of course, it’s not just the hormones. I still do all the other things — mo’ protein, mo’ veggies, 20-minute strength training three times a week (though I’ve fallen off the wagon lately), sleep supplements, meditation, yoga. All of it helps. But what HRT gave me was the energy and clarity to actually feel the effects of those things again.

To recognize myself in the reflection of a mirror, not for how I look, but for how I move through the world. I don’t want to focus on wrinkles, laugh lines, or how my clothes fit me. I want to see myself for who I am — a woman who’s lived nearly five decades and amassed the wisdom that can only come with time and experience. She’s doing the best with what she knows. And that’s enough.

Maybe that’s what this phase is about. Not fighting change, not trying to fix anything, not racing toward some version of arrival. Just coming back to the parts of myself that went quiet for a while. Meeting life with softer edges, better boundaries, and a little more grace.

Still changing. Still curious. Still on the adventure.

Also, there’s a strong chance HRT has spared a few souls* from the sharp end of my perimenopausal wrath.

*Names and identifying details have been withheld to protect the blissfully unaware.