She Climbed to the Top of Media—Then, Menopause Nearly Took Her Down

I was at the top of my game.

I had just served as the first female editor-in-chief of Ebony magazine where we produced some landmark stories about Black culture, including a rare cover story on Prince along with Michael Jackson’s last photo shoot and interview before he died. I was back in New York City, working with entertainers who were launching their careers—everybody from PARTYNEXTDOOR to Andra Day—and helping them to tell their stories effectively.

And I had become an official contributor to the TODAY show, where I had been giving advice to millions of viewers for more than a decade.

On this particular morning, in the 7 a.m. hour, I was sitting in the makeup chair being readied for my segment. The pace of morning preparation behind the scenes was old hat to me. I was part of the team. I was in the flow.

Until, everything changed.

I was chatting with the makeup artist when, out of nowhere, my body heated up. It felt like I had become a microwave oven. I was suddenly combustible. From the depths of my inner being, a tsunami-sized surge of blazing heat pushed through my cells depositing a deluge of liquid all over my face.

Even my hair got wet, so the double-teaming that sometimes happens to buy time before going live on camera had to stop. The hair stylist could no longer use a flat iron on my hair because steam was fizzing off the iron.

Time stopped. Light banter screeched silent. Makeup application paused mid stroke. Nothing could happen now. The storm on my face rendered makeup application impossible.

I mean, how could the makeup artist apply eye shadow on top of a face that was crying out for the windshield wipers to be turned on?

Thank god, this was not the makeup artist’s first rodeo. Immediately, she consoled me. “It’s OK,” she said. “Take off your shoes.”

I looked at her, wondering if she really understood what was going on. “Take off your shoes and put the soles of your feet on the base of the chair,” she urged.

I was sitting in an adjustable makeup chair—the kind with a black pleather seat sitting atop a chrome pole. “The metal will cool you off,” she promised.

With embarrassed eyes cast downward, I wrapped my long, slender feet around the pole as best I could and sat breathing deeply, praying that the storm would pass and I wouldn’t miss my spot to chat with TODAY show co-host Ann Curry about some important topic of the day.

It worked.

A few months later, I was sitting in an important pitch meeting where I was talking to two of the top editors at the New York Times. There was a position open that seemed perfect for someone like me with decades of magazine editorial leadership experience. I had prepared carefully, being sure that I would position myself optimally to be considered for the role in question.

I remember walking into the New York Times building and feeling the majesty of its history. Sure, I had contributed significantly to culture through other publications like Essence and Ebony and had helped to launch Uptown and Savoy. But the New York Times felt different. It was daunting.

Within seconds after I began my pitch, it started raining on my face.

There I was presenting what I thought were bold, creative ideas to the quintessential newspaper, yet in an instant, I had lost my mojo. While normally my confidence is high, in that moment, it fizzled out—extinguished by the water that was pouring down my forehead onto my fashionably appointed interview suit.

Not knowing what to do, I acted like nothing was happening and awkwardly continued talking. I felt like I had to soldier on. Talk through it. Pretend I was OK. No surprise: I did not get a callback.

At that point, I had to do something. I went to my primary care doctor and pleaded for help. She listened carefully and then prescribed a low-dosage hormone therapy that she assured me would slow down, if not eradicate, the hot flashes… because yes, at age 50, just like clockwork, I was officially in menopause.

I knew about menopause, what my mother called “the Change,” peripherally.

My mother had nonchalantly told my sisters and me that she had gone through “the Change” for a long time, something like 15 years. She said it so matter-of-factly that it just seemed inevitable. It was a fact among facts. It was going to happen to me. Note to self: At some point, I would have to fan myself a lot and likely suffer some mood swings, but I would get past it.

You know that saying “much easier said than done”?

I had become paralyzed by hot flashes. They were negatively impacting my career. They had to stop. That too was a fact.

The hormones worked. I took them for a month or so, and I seemed back to my old self. When I plopped into the TODAY show makeup chair, no longer did I need to cool my body off through my feet. I felt such a sense of relief.

And then, I had my annual check up with my OB-GYN.

It was then that the world stood still a second time. My old-school doctor, a friendly enough gentleman who was nearing retirement age, listened to me talk about my health status. I proudly reported my taking of hormones for menopause, and he stopped me mid-sentence. He admonished me for taking them and told me I had to stop at once. He explained that if I continued to take hormone replacement therapy (HRT), I was guaranteed to get cancer and die.

“What?” I exclaimed, mortified.

He went further to say that men who take Viagra or Cialis also will get cancer. He scolded me and the legions of others who were taking these drugs, pontificating that we were trying to interrupt the natural course of human life. Staring at me with a piercing gaze, my doctor said that if I did not stop taking the hormones immediately, he would make me sign a formal document saying that he had told me I was going to get cancer, yet I had decided to take the medication anyway.

This doctor scared the you-know-what out of me.

Sheepishly, I slinked out of his office. I was so humiliated, because he made me think I was stupid for not knowing better. He suggested that I should just accept “the Change” and endure it. This is life.

I was an emotional wreck, once again stopped by this ticking time bomb that was happening inside of me. When I think about my reaction now, I could slap myself in the face. I was so undone by the way the doctor scolded me that I was stunned silent. I did not seek a second opinion. I did not tell my mother. I did not look for alternative paths to reconcile “my condition.” I simply endured it in silence. (Well, as a longtime meditator, I did engage in yoga and deep breathing, which helped. )

When I recently listened to Dr. Jennifer Ashton, founder and president of Ajendra and former network news chief medical correspondent, talk about the fact that there are plenty of healthy options for women who are in menopause to address their symptoms, especially hot flashes, I was both relieved and angry. She pointed out that menopause often strikes exactly when women are in the prime of their lives, often wrecking their worlds just when they should be soaring. (That had been me.)

Ashton noted that hormone replacement therapy is not an automatic death sentence. Millions of women use it successfully. She added that menopause is not studied as extensively as many other health conditions. And despite the many cutting-edge breakthroughs that are happening, doctors rarely know about them if they aren’t on top of the research.

Meanwhile, there’s a whole world of non-medical strategies that have helped women—everything from curbing alcohol, caffeine and spicy foods because they can trigger more heat in the body to taking supplements like black cohosh, eating flaxseed and getting acupuncture. The list of alternative options is long these days. Check out some ideas, here.

I survived menopause while managing to maintain a healthy career even though all I knew to use to combat hot flashes were a hand fan and some deep breathing. I am so happy that now, only a few years later, women have more options than I did.