I remember my daughter standing in the hallway, not knowing what to say, when she started her period. I had gently left an unopened package of pads on her bed the day before, just in case. She was holding it. She told me it had started in a voice that was almost a whisper. I hugged her and told her it was okay to be scared, worried, or unsure. I informed her again that this was a normal part of growing up and not something to be ashamed of. But I didn’t know how quickly that feeling of safety would go gone.
At first, she handled everything with calm strength. She asked questions, paid close attention, and began to understand how her body was changing. I was proud of her. She never whined or made a fuss. She just transformed, like girls do—gracefully, gently, and without bothering anyone.
Then there were the answers.
It all began when one of our sons found a wrapped pad in the trash. Later that night, my husband came up to me and said, in a strange tone, “The boys saw something in the bathroom.” It looked like they were genuinely upset. “Maybe she shouldn’t tell anyone?” I asked what that meant. Did she have to hide the fact that she was on her period? Was it wrong to be a girl?
“It’s just that the boys aren’t used to that,” he said. His answer wasn’t harsh, but it was disappointing. Maybe she can keep the things in her room? Or they could just use the bathroom downstairs instead? I had to use all my strength to keep from yelling right then.
Still, I stayed calm. I told them that periods aren’t “that stuff.” They aren’t awful or shameful. They are real. They make life. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.
But things just got worse.
I noticed my daughter in her room a few days later with the door slightly open. She still had the lunch she had on her desk. When I asked her why she hadn’t come down to eat, she just shrugged. “I thought I should stay up here,” she said. “I don’t want to make anyone sick.”
My heart sank.
She stated her dad told her to “just wait it out in your room until it’s over” so the boys wouldn’t feel awkward. I wanted to know how that made her feel. She tried to seem like it didn’t hurt, but I could tell it did. She cried that night. Not because of cramps or hormones, but because she thought her life had suddenly become rude. She was ashamed of her body in a way that no girl should ever have to be. And the worst part? That shame didn’t come from the outside world. It was coming from inside our home.
That was the end of the road. I told everyone, even my spouse, that I didn’t want to cross again.
The next day, I held a family meeting. I didn’t ask for permission. I told everyone that we were going to talk about it. My kid was sitting next to me, quiet but interested. My sons looked like they were nervous, but they came anyhow. My spouse was also apprehensive about what was coming up.
I spoke plainly and softly. I told them how it felt to see a young girl who was innocent and curious feel small, dirty, or humiliated about something that happens all the time. I told them what it was like to be a woman in this world: to bleed every month and yet go to school, work, clean the house, and take care of other people, all while hiding it since society thought it was too “uncomfortable” for others to handle.
Then I looked at my sons and said, “You guys aren’t bad.” You are all great. But not doing things isn’t the only thing that makes you a great person. It’s about how you act when someone asks for your support. Your sister is OK. But she is paying attention to how you are treating her right now. That will impact how she sees herself for a long time.
They remained quiet for a time. Finally, my oldest son raised his hand, not sure if he should, and asked, “Why does it have to happen every month?” Does it hurt every time? His voice didn’t sound like he was making fun of him. It was true. That’s interesting.
I told him what he wanted to know. I replied all of them. I saw how their pain slowly turned into understanding. They had never heard of this problem before. It wasn’t done on intention. People didn’t know enough, care enough, or know enough.
My daughter also answered some of their questions, which is a good thing. She talked softly, but her voice was more confident than I had heard all week. At the end of the chat, one of her brothers looked at her and said, “Sorry if we hurt your feelings.” I didn’t really get what was going on. Just let us know if you ever need anything.
That moment—just offering help—changed everything.
That night, as I was cleaning the kitchen, my husband arrived home. He looked tired, but he also looked like he was pondering. He apologized. That he grew up in a house where his mother hid her pads in locked cupboards, never said the term “period” out loud, and treated women’s bodies like they were something to be ashamed of.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he remarked. “But I want to do better.”
He went out and bought my daughter’s favorite ice cream the next weekend. He then sat down next to her in the living room and remarked, “You don’t have to hide anything here.” You also live in this house. She smiled, hugged him, and said, “Thanks, Dad.”
It wasn’t a big deal. But it didn’t have to be that way. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for yourself is to adjust your tone, answer a question instead of ignoring it, or say you’re sorry without giving an excuse.
We’re still trying to figure things out. But now we’re learning together, and we’re not doing it quietly. We are not doing this because we are ashamed, but because we want to help. How about my daughter? She is standing up straighter now. Not because the world has changed, but because we are making changes in our own home, she is standing up straighter. One actual conversation at a time.
