worldsaway

Being a woman can feel exhausting sometimes. There are so many standards to meet, so much pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way, be everything all at once—and somehow still make it look effortless. It’s a lot.

Growing up, no one really talked about what it meant to be a woman—at least not in a way that felt honest or empowering. The women in my life worked hard, held everything together, showed up for everyone… but there wasn’t language around strength or power or even understanding our own bodies. Things just were the way they were. And anything related to our bodies—especially the messy, natural, biological parts—felt quiet. Unspoken. Slightly uncomfortable. Like it belonged behind closed doors.

And in my house specifically, everything stayed pretty surface-level. I was the funny one. That was my role. I made jokes, kept things light, didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. Which also meant I didn’t really have space to be anything else. Serious conversations didn’t happen—not because anyone said they couldn’t, but because it just…wasn’t how we operated. So talking about bodies, or emotions, or anything even slightly vulnerable never really felt like an option.

So when school finally stepped in to “teach” us, you would think it might fill in those gaps.

It did not.

I still remember our first sex ed class in 4th grade. Not because it was informative, but because it was rooted in shame. We watched this video about a girl getting her period for the first time at a sleepover. Cue the panic: no pads, no tampons, emergency trip to the store. The whole “girl squad” goes in, finds the largest pack of pads known to mankind, and—of course—runs into a boy from school. She drops everything and runs away like she’s just committed a crime.

I don’t even remember how the video ended because I was too busy unlocking a brand-new fear: that one day I, too, would be publicly humiliated in the feminine hygiene aisle. Nothing like a little educational trauma to really set the tone.

My friends got their periods early—4th and 5th grade. I got mine the summer before 8th grade, about a week before I turned 13. I remember that day so clearly.

I woke up, went to the bathroom, and saw the tiniest bit of blood. And instead of reacting like a rational human being, I decided the best course of action was…denial. Immediate, full-body denial. “This is probably nothing,” I told myself, a literal child with zero medical training.

I had plans to hang out at my neighbor’s house, so off I went. Every time I used the bathroom, there was a little more blood. And every time, I doubled down on ignoring it. At this point, it wasn’t even denial—it was commitment. I had chosen my storyline, and I was sticking to it.

Eventually, I went home, went to bed, still pretending everything was totally fine.

Until I woke up in the middle of the night.

Now, when I say it looked like a massacre…that might still be an understatement. My sheets? Ruined. My sense of peace? Gone. My delusion? Finally broken.

And the worst part wasn’t the blood. I knew exactly what was happening.

The worst part was that I had to tell my mom.

And that felt impossible—not because she was cruel or unkind, but because we just…didn’t talk like that. Our relationship lived in jokes, quick check-ins, day-to-day logistics. I was the easy kid. The funny one. The one who didn’t need much. So suddenly having something real, something messy, something that required vulnerability? I had no blueprint for that.

So I did what any logical, well-adjusted 12-year-old would do: I tiptoed into her room in the middle of the night and just…stood there. Hovering. Staring. Waiting for her to wake up. Because obviously, that’s the least terrifying approach.

She wakes up, confused, and asks what I’m doing. And I go, “I woke up with blood all over me.”

Not dramatic at all. Very casual. Very chill delivery.

She asks if I know what that means. I say yes.

She asks if I need help. I say no.

And then I just…leave. Immediately. Because the conversation had already exceeded my lifetime limit for discomfort.

I went back to my room and made the executive decision to use toilet paper as a pad, which—if you’ve ever tried it—is both ineffective and a little optimistic. But it got me through the night, and at that point, survival was the goal.

At some point after my mom left for work the next morning, I snuck into her bathroom like I was on a covert mission and found the last remaining pad in the house. So please, you can relax now. No more toilet paper pad.

That morning, I stayed in bed. Partly because I felt awful, partly because I was emotionally spiraling, and mostly because I didn’t want to see a single human being. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want anyone to acknowledge it. I especially didn’t want anyone labeling me as…a woman. Absolutely not.

Unfortunately, my mom decided this was information worth sharing and told my older sister. My sister actually handled it well—she came into my room gently, tried to check on me—but I shut it down immediately.

“Heeey, I heard you got your—”

“Don’t. Say. It.”

She pivoted, asked if I needed anything. I told her I needed her to go away. Which, looking back, was harsh—but at the time, I was processing a full identity crisis, so I stand by it.

And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, my mom decided we should all go out to dinner.

Just the four of us.

Including my dad.

Honestly, that should qualify as a character-building experience.

I don’t remember a single thing that was said at that dinner. I blacked out from sheer discomfort. I do remember feeling like there was a flashing neon sign above my head that said, “SHE HAS HER PERIOD,” even though, realistically, no one in the restaurant cared. But logic was not running the show that day.

On the drive home, my mom asked if I needed anything. And this was my moment. So I said, “Yeah…we don’t have any pads.”

We stopped at the store. She asked if I wanted to come in.

Again—absolutely not.

That was the last time I talked to my mom about my period. Or my body. Or anything remotely related. After that, I handled it myself. Babysitting money, sneaking off to Walgreens during my little brother’s baseball games, buying pads and tampons like I was conducting a secret operation, and hiding them like evidence.

I carried so much shame, and I couldn’t even tell you exactly where it all came from. It was just…there.

That is, until my 20s.

Somewhere along the way, something shifted. I started to feel this deep sense of empowerment about my body—something I had never experienced before. I became grateful to be a woman. I wish I could pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I can’t. I just know I’m thankful it did.

Now, as I inch closer and closer to 30, that appreciation has only grown. I’m genuinely fascinated by my menstrual cycle—how each phase impacts me, how my body communicates, how much there is to learn. And I’ve become really curious about other women’s experiences too—how they were raised, what their first moments of womanhood felt like. There’s something so powerful in sharing those stories, whether they’re rooted in empowerment or in shame, because almost all of us can relate in some way.

I think part of that shift came when my first niece was born. The moment I met her, something in me changed. I loved her so much it hurt to think that one day she might feel the same shame about her body that I did about mine.

So I made a decision.

From the very beginning, I spoke to her differently. You are strong. You are smart. You are powerful. You are perfect exactly as you are. I wanted her to grow up with the confidence I didn’t have. I wanted her to have a safe place to ask questions without fear or embarrassment.

I became that for her. I am that for her.

And honestly, that might be my greatest achievement so far—becoming the woman I needed, for someone in the next generation.

Because the truth is, being a woman isn’t annoying.

It’s powerful. It’s complex. It’s deeply human.

We are capable of so much. We are worthy of so much.

And maybe the shift happens when we start reminding each other of that—out loud, often, and without apology.