4 days ago
I hit the menopause, posted a naked photo of myself and stopped caring about other people's opinions
Podcaster and motivational speaker Lu Featherstone, 54, lives in South London with her partner. Her son, Oska, is 21.
I've always been told I am too much. 'Tone it down, Louisa,' they say. For decades I tried to be the nice girl, seen and not heard. Yet at the age of 47, in a moment of impulsive madness, I took a picture of my naked, middle-aged backside at the top of a volcano. And it changed everything.
I didn't realise it then, but I was just on the brink of menopause. That photograph was me screaming with frustration at the world and at my husband: 'Look at me – I'm here'.
Often, all we hear about the menopause is that it's an anxiety-ridden time when your libido drops off a cliff. Mine wasn't all fun, either – it was often confusing and rageful. But what it also did was herald a really rather wonderful new chapter; one in which I found my voice, and stopped giving a damn – making me feel sexier, bolder, freer, or more able to be 'me' than at any other stage of my life.
Being the good girl
My dad was a vicar, so I grew up moving around the country. From Worcester to London, wherever God called, we went. My mother was a probation officer, so good behaviour was expected at home. And we welcomed everyone from the bishop to the bereaved and the homeless through our doors.
As much as my parents tried to reign in my rebellious streak, my earliest school memories are of being on the naughty table. As a teen I'd snogged most of the church choir, then had a wild old time in my 20s, including a stint working as a Ministry of Defence youth worker in Berlin, before returning to London to work in PR and advertising. I loved my job and was good at it, and that's when I met my husband Guy, in 1998. I knew he was a keeper when he refused to sleep with me on date one.
Five years later, when I was 33, my dad officiated the fabulous wedding we held in Sussex, helping us serve up fish and chips on the beach afterwards. Five months later, Guy and I happily welcomed our son Oska. So far, so normal.
Saying goodbye to my sense of self
Somewhere between marriage and motherhood (where I hid, even from Guy, my godawful postnatal depression for two lonely years) my own identity shrivelled. So, too, did my ability to actually say what I needed. While Guy worked in London, I stayed in Brighton being mummy. I invented a particularly pass-agg game called 'How long will it take my husband to ask me how my day was?' Sometimes, it was five minutes, others it would be an hour and a half before he'd finished telling me about his day. If only I'd said: 'I really need you to ask me about my day'. Instead, I sat in martyred silence, doing what I thought a good wife should: causing little fuss.
I threw myself into the PTA, became a school governor, and went back to social work, helping families in need. All very helpful for the community, yet admittedly none of this nurtured my marriage.
The start of separate lives
Guy was offered a great advertising job in Portland, Oregon, when Oska was 10. We flew out first class excited by our US adventure. Yet almost immediately after we moved there, uprooting our whole lives together, Guy won a pitch requiring a five-hour commute to New York most weeks, so we ended up spending even less time as a family.
With Oska at school I got on with building my own life. Hiking is a 'thing' in Oregon, so I took myself off for one. Then another mum asked to join me, and another, and we soon we became a real gang. Taking a picnic (including a can of 'hiking wine') off we'd climb, while merrily bitching about what all midlife mums do – our kids and husbands – before returning for the school pick-up in much better moods. I love the Americans' go-getting attitude to life, which is so different to us Brits.
These hikes were a lifeline, and my self-confidence soared along with my fitness and strength. So much so that one day, in 2019, I reached the top of the South Sisters volcano and felt such a sense of triumph I whipped my clothes off. Naked, bar my boots, I asked a friend to capture the moment on my phone. When I overheard a couple of blokes remark 'she's bold', I just thought: 'Yes! I am!' I wanted to forever remember that fearless, badass rush of feeling 'me' for once. Then, in a further 'f--- it' moment, I posted it on social media.
The photo that changed everything
Normally my pictures were of salads, mountains or my beloved vintage clothes, so this one raised more than just eyebrows. A 26-year-old guy from the gym even sent me what I shall coyly describe here as an 'intimate photograph' – the first I'd ever received. Call me a terrible feminist (and I don't suggest men sending unsolicited shots of this nature is ever cool), but to my surprise I found it a huge turn on. 'Still got it, baby,' I thought.
For the first time in years, I realised I felt desired. In marriage, my sex life had plummeted to the bottom of the to-do list. We'd neglected each other and the most basic of needs – and we can't be the only couple guilty of this.
For a while, I blamed Guy for never wanting me, but I've since had to accept my own part in our dwindling intimacy. Me going to bed in a tracksuit for eight years probably didn't help.
Of course, having a fling with the 26-year-old crossed my mind, but that didn't happen. Instead, it was more like a sharp wake-up call, where I began thinking, what I had lost in my desperation to be the perfect wife and sacrificial mum? My sex life, my self-esteem, my sense of fun and adventure, and grabbing life by the throat. All the things that had defined me in my 20s I'd just let fade away over the years.
Moving into the spare room
By 2020, against the backdrop of Covid and me isolating in order to visit my then dying mother, I'd moved into the spare room. For two months I lay on a thin floor mattress, because even buying a proper bed felt too heartbreakingly final that my marriage was over. I remember sitting crying outside Ikea until Guy, so worried, asked my friends to march me in and help buy the bloody bed.
Sometimes, Facebook memories pop up on my phone, making me cringe about the angry jokes I'd posted about wanting to kill my husband; how annoying I'd found even his blinking eyelashes back then. Pure menopause rage.
We had therapy, we tried to patch things up, but the sad reality of our 20-year marriage was that we'd drifted too far apart to find our way back.
I lived in that spare room for 18 months. It turned out to be the space I needed, getting on with my hot sweats in peace. For the first time in 25 years, I bought a vibrator – and, yes, I bloody loved it (sorry, Dad). With socialising banned, I started being honest about all the highs and lows of menopause with other women on social media, too. Because amongst the divorce and anger, I realised I was looking at life through a different lens and I saw how brilliant it felt to stop giving a f--- about so many little things that take up precious head space.
So what if hair now brutally sprung from my chin and nipples (one minute they're not there, the next they're 4cm long)? Who cares if I wear mismatching underwear and that my favourite bra hasn't been washed for three weeks? If I want to wear hot pants, leopard-print and bikinis, I will thank you. The words 'age appropriate' are loathsome and insignificant. After a lifetime of pleasing people, these mini epiphanies felt joyful.
The next chapter
Guy and I couldn't afford two separate homes, but neither could I remain forever in the spare room. Oska graduating from high school seemed the right time to make the change that had been brewing.
Buoyed up by the positive responses from women that were flooding in on social media, I dreamed up an ambitious plan: buy a bus and tour the States throwing events to connect women locally, get them talking about menopause, masturbation, life after divorce, body confidence, all of it.
I was turning 50 and clearly saw that I was more than half way through my life. I didn't want to keep sleepwalking my way through it. I felt like I'd woken up to the world, accepted my marriage had come to an end along with my fertile years, and that this was a time to try to help other women. I'd seen the light and how liberating it was to understand so much more about myself. Finally, I was able to differentiate between what really mattered and what really didn't.
I found a 1983 Bluebird Wanderlodge bus, who I called Susie after my beloved mum, and I painted her pink. I was revved up for my adventure but, still, the most agonising thing I've ever done was driving off that day in 2022, leaving distraught Guy and Oska on the street, along with half of Portland who'd come along to wave me off. That was a s----, regrettable way of leaving, and I've since apologised to Guy. I cried all the way to Idaho, questioning my decision each of the 19 times Susie broke down.
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But I carried on going, attracting honks from truck drivers and flashes from women out of sunroofs along the way. Everyone I met wondered what the hell I was doing and my crazy answer was always this: 'I've just left my husband. I'm touring America preaching self-love and confidence, trying to empower women to seize their power, particularly in middle age'. The wives high-fived me, while the husbands dragged them away as quickly as possible.
There were so many important moments helping women in need. At a campsite in Arkansas, I met three women all dying of cancer alone – they now cook and support each other. In Austin, a woman beaten by her husband came to my doorstep bleeding; she moved into the bus until we could get her into a shelter. I met women on the run – from domestic violence, fundamental religion, divorce and homelessness. And, as a bonus, I'd convinced hundreds more that their middle-aged sex life isn't doomed: their best years are ahead.
Arriving in New York, some 6,000 miles and 28 states later, I knew I hadn't changed the world. But, in my own small revolution, I'd spread the word from one middle-aged woman to another: 'This is our time – don't fear it.'
How life looks now
Today, I'm happy to report that Oska is a gorgeous well-adjusted adult and Guy has a new love. I'm now 54 and living in London with a partner who was my first love when I was 18 and, by chance, we reconnected three years ago. There was always chemistry, but in our earlier years we couldn't seem to understand each other. Now we've both grown up. He lets me be me. Reaching this time in life you really start living it, not caring if you're well-liked or seeking approval. Menopause is the gift that's made me sexier, more confident. I finally feel like 'me'.
As told to Susanna Galton
Five other things Lu no longer cares about in midlife…
A neat bikini line
I'm aiming for a glorious 1970s-style bush, though it's a bit tufty thanks to years of waxing.
Whether my partner is chilly at night
I will be sleeping with the window open every night, whatever the weather. Because I am boiling. All.
Making a proper dinner
I will not apologise for eating crisps as a meal, and I reserve the right to picky bits on Tuesdays if I feel bougie. Also: gin is part of a balanced lifestyle and alcohol is a useful crutch to get through.
Leaving the party early – if I make it at all
My mood changes recklessly and what I think is a good idea on Tuesday will not be the same by Friday night.
Hurting someone's feelings by using a vibrator
It gets the job done quickly and doesn't answer back. My partner can get involved or not. You snooze, you lose.
