The Estrogen Whisperer: How to Stay Married When Your Guy Has Medically Transitioned Into a Sentient Rice Pudding”

A Field Guide for the Partners of Castrated Men

So your husband, partner, or inexplicably attached male companion has started hormone therapy for prostate cancer. Congratulations. You are now in a committed relationship with a man who is technically alive, biologically male, emotionally porous, and sexually about as threatening as a tepid foot bath.

What follows is a practical (read: survivalist) guide to navigating life with a man whose testosterone has left the building and may not even be sending postcards.

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1. Your New Roommate: Mr. Moist and Moody

The first thing you’ll notice is that your partner’s mood swings are now timed less like a pendulum and more like a pinball machine during a thunderstorm. He will cry because the sun came out. He will become furious because the dishwasher wasn’t loaded “respectfully.” He will sigh deeply while watching squirrels and call it “reflecting.”

You are not dating a man anymore. You are cohabiting with an overheated, bewildered turnip who once knew how to drive a car and now sometimes stares at cereal like it’s a philosophical riddle.

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2. Sweat: The New Cologne

You’ll wake in the middle of the night to find your partner glistening like a buttered ham. This is not passion. This is a hot flash. The sheets will be soaked. He may pant. Do not mistake this for arousal—it’s thermonuclear despair.

Tip: keep a second set of sheets nearby, a towel for each of you, and a laminated card that says “It’s just the meds” to wave at each other when your bedroom begins to resemble a subtropical monsoon.

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3. Libido: Missing, Presumed Dead

Remember sex? He doesn’t.

You may feel rejected. Don’t. It’s not you. It’s not even him. It’s chemistry—specifically, the complete absence of it.

This is not a temporary dry spell. This is a hormonal scorched-earth policy. His testicles have gone into early retirement. His penis is now decorative. His libido is off-grid, living in a cabin, writing a memoir about the glory days.

Don’t pressure. Don’t coax. Do invest in quality batteries. Or wine. Possibly both.

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4. Body Reboot: Fat, Fluff, and Fragility

The man who once proudly lifted heavy things to prove points is now losing muscle mass like a snowman in July. His chest may soften. His waist may widen. His bones may file for disability. And his skin? Less “rugged explorer,” more “overripe pear.”

He may look in the mirror with horror. Reassure him gently, but don’t lie. He knows. You know. Everyone at the pharmacy knows. Instead, tell him he looks like a wise walrus. Or a dignified seal. Use marine metaphors. They’re strangely comforting.

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5. Conversation: Feelings You Didn’t Ask For

Thanks to ADT, he now has feelings—and worse, he wants to talk about them.

At length.

With intensity.

He will process his mortality, the fragility of time, his feelings about salad dressing, and why the hummingbirds seem “disappointed” in him this year.

Nod supportively. Offer tea. Set a timer.

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6. The Death-Obsessed Philosopher Phase

There will come a point when he enters what I call the “Existential Void Monologue” phase. This includes such lines as:

• “What even is manhood?”

• “Maybe I was never actually alive before.”

• “If the prostate is gone, am I just… spare parts?”

This is normal. Let him rant. He’s mourning his testosterone the way Victorians mourned dead aunts; publicly, dramatically, and with a lot of sitting around in silence.

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7. The Practical Realities: Costco and Cancer Brochures

You will spend more time at Costco, because his new hobbies include labeling things, organizing dry goods, and weeping in bulk. He will research cancer diets. He will buy strange teas. He will attempt tofu. Smile. Eat the tofu. Order a pizza later.

He may also become suspiciously interested in vitamins, probiotic yogurts, and German documentaries about fungi. This is his attempt to do something. Let him. It’s harmless. And honestly, some of those mushrooms are fascinating.

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8. Love, Reimagined

You didn’t sign up for this version of him. He didn’t either. But here you are. You, watching him fold laundry with the concentration of a monk, gently crying to a Sarah McLachlan ad. He looks at you like you are a lighthouse in a fog of hormonal confusion.

This version of love is not hot. It’s not sexy. It’s not particularly well-lit. But it is real. It’s loyalty. It’s compassion. It’s holding the line when everything softens, shifts, and sweats.

And one day, when the fog lifts a little, when he cracks a joke, or holds your hand without trembling. You’ll realize you’re not just loving a man with no testosterone.

You’re loving a man who came back from the hormonal dead and still remembers who you are.

Even if he can’t find his socks anymore.

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9. Lowering the Bar: Redefining Marital Success

Success now looks different. It’s no longer about date nights, adventurous intimacy, or renovating the kitchen without ending up on Dateline. It’s simpler. Some examples of a “good day” during ADT:

• No one cried while folding socks.

• You didn’t argue over which brand of unsalted crackers is “more digestible.”

• He didn’t accuse you of “invalidating his hot flash.”

• You both laughed at the same dark joke about death.

Celebrate these moments. Take pictures. Frame them. Because the next day, he might sob uncontrollably because the hummus tastes “lonely.”

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10. Understanding His Murderous Calm

It’s important to know that your partner’s current emotional state is not stable; it is simply flattened. He’s not calm. He’s castrated. There’s a difference.

Beneath his stoic silence is a boiling vat of existential crisis, repressed lust, phantom erections, and probably constipation. One wrong move, and you’ll unleash either the fury of Zeus or the sobbing of a toddler who’s just dropped his ice cream.

Remember: the man who once assembled IKEA furniture with one eyebrow raised is now unable to complete a grocery list without a quiet panic attack and three “palate fatigue” breaks.

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11. The Great Hummus Incident (And Other Culinary Rage Triggers)

He will become passionate about strange things—like hummus, herbal tea, or the correct placement of quinoa in the pantry. This is not about the chickpeas. This is about control. He has none over his hormones, body, or sex drive, so the hummus must obey.

Do not question his hummus. Do not suggest other dips. Just eat it, nod encouragingly, and agree that store-bought brands “lack emotional nuance.”

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12. Communication, Now in Soft Focus

Every conversation now carries the emotional risk of a hostage negotiation. You must balance honesty, compassion, and the growing urge to scream, “IT’S JUST YOUR HORMONES, NOT A SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY.”

Use neutral phrases like:

• “I hear that you’re experiencing a wave of feelings.”

• “Let’s revisit that conversation after your nap and electrolyte drink.”

• “That’s a completely reasonable reaction to mild hummus inconsistencies.”

Avoid phrases like:

• “You’re being hormonal.”

• “This again?”

• “You didn’t even like hummus before ADT.”

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13. Sex: The Museum Exhibit You Now Quietly Walk Past

Sex is no longer an act. It is now a concept. You may reminisce. You may read books about it. But mostly, it exists in the same category as sailing around the world or buying a second home in Tuscany: theoretically possible, practically dead.

This is normal. You can find new ways to be close, like coordinated naps, watching true crime while holding hands, or joint grumbling at people who seem happy.

You’re not less of a couple. You’re just operating in a different frequency band now. Think less Marvin Gaye, more NPR.

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14. To Divorce, or Not to Divorce

Will you think about it? Yes. Will you Google legal separation laws? Probably. Will you fantasize about faking your own death and moving to Portugal under the name “Cassandra Ridges”? Absolutely.

But the truth is, this hormonal storm is temporary. The man you married is still in there, under the gauzy layers of estrogen and confusion and foot cream. He’s fighting too, even if he currently resembles a sentient duvet cover.

Don’t give up on each other. Do give up on normalcy.

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15. Rituals of Survival

Establish daily rituals to keep each other grounded:

• Share a single sarcastic compliment (“Your mood swings are less homicidal today!”)

• Tag-team naps like war medics.

• Keep a shared “Safe Words” list. Not for sex—for stopping conversations before they spiral into 45-minute monologues about bone density.

• Maintain a sense of humor like it’s oxygen. Because it is.

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Final Word:

ADT won’t kill your relationship. But it will strip it naked, throw it into a pit, and demand it reassemble itself using nothing but love, humour, and joint discomfort.

And when it’s over, if you survive, you’ll both be stronger. Older. Stranger. But undeniably bonded by the sheer absurdity of having lived through the hormonal equivalent of war.

Just... keep the hummus stocked.