Dear Hormones – A Disgruntled Middle-Aged Woman’s Plea to You


Dear hormones,

What in all things holy and sacred is your problem?

I’m sorry to be so brisk and rude – actually, no I’m not. In fact, I have a larger-than-life size bone to pick with you.

So, I’m forty and I’m sitting here looking at my face, and there’s this little – no big – blemish on right there on my jawline that looks like I got hit with a marble. I’m not kidding. It’s like a small red hill that’s angry at the world. I’m pretty sure it lost its way while it was looking for the twenty-something-year-old whoever this attack was meant to be for.

I say attack, because that’s what it is.

An attack. An attack on an innocent middle-age woman who has more than paid her dues to you over the years. Here I am, just minding my own business and for some unholy reason, you feel the need to show the world what kind of changes you’re going through. Like it’s not enough that I already know – you need an audience. How typical.

I don’t know which one of you is currently in charge, so I’m going to speak to you as a while.

Hormones, I gave you some of the best years of my life. I had you meddling with my self-esteem when I really could have used more of a pick-me-up, not something-strange-is-growing-on-your-cheek attitude. You were there for boyfriends, breakups, happy times and sad. You never gave up. Ever. And while I’d like to admire your persistence, I really wish you’d just reel it in a bit, huh?

You entered my life around the seventh grade which was fine. But then you lingered on, like some unwanted annoying guest who doesn’t get the hint. It’s like you took it upon yourself to throw the longest ass party ever and never once bothered to check in with me to see how I was feeling.

You littered my face with bouts of acne, which turned into scars, because anxiety. Because you messed with something that was already on the verge of breaking. Because picking at you became my nervous tick.

And that’s kind of the worst part. You teamed up with good ole anxiety and anxiety doesn’t like anyone. In fact, anxiety enjoys picking at your presence on my face to get its fix, and before you know it, I look like a deranged Picasso painting that’s been sitting in the basement in some unknown stranger’s house.

How many of there are you?

Ever since puberty, you were there. You followed me around the world, cashing in on free rides to seeing beautiful sights and making everlasting memories. You scored prime seating in all kinds of photos that have forever recorded your presence.

I mean, come one now. You’ve had 40 years to work this shit out. Why am I still getting acne?

And what’s with your presence on my chest and the back of my neck?!

Reign it in asshole!

There I am, lying around watching mind-numbing television when I got to fiddle with my necklace and my hand happens to glide over the bumps you’ve created on my chest. You sent a bunch of your little jerk friends over to wreak havoc on my innocence. Were you mad that I skipped that cheese platter at the party? “Oooo, I won’t get my fix today, maybe I’ll throw some jerkiness at her”. So I chose my aging digestive system over you, sue me.

What is your problem anyway? Did I not cater enough to you? And why on earth do you find it necessary to go to war on my face? Isn’t just one enough? Why does it have to be all? The real question is, though, why does it have to be any?

And it’s not just the breakouts, although, that’s my major complaint. I’m having these unscheduled menstrual cycles and all-of-a-sudden cramps. I mean, what the fuck did I ever do to you? I should be getting less periods and no cramps at this age, especially since I never really got cramps in the first place!

Get your shit together!

I don’t want to find any more coarse black chin hairs or thin angry nipple hairs. What’s the deal anyway? You’re not satisfied with the hair that grows in the intended areas? Is it like some sick joke you play on women who have aged out of puberty? I’m done.


Hormones, you’ve taken enough out of me and it’s time for you to scale it back. I know you need to be here. I mean, I can’t function without you. But you don’t need to be so vulgar and invasive. You don’t need to have a full-blown hate on for me. You for sure don’t need to remind me that you’re here, because trust me, I know.

All I need from you before you set menopause in action is to take a step back and let me enjoy the rest of my days with a hairless clear face and a straight back.


A disgruntled middle-aged woman looking for a break