I recall my daughter standing in the hallway, not knowing what to say, the day she got her period. She was holding the unopened package of pads that I had quietly left on her bed the day before, just in case. She informed me it had begun in a voice that was practically a whisper. I held her and informed her that it was perfectly acceptable for her to feel terrified, apprehensive, or unsure. I told her again that this was a rite of passage, not something to be ashamed of. But I didn’t know then how quickly that feeling of safety would go away.
At first, she dealt with it with calm strength. She asked questions, paid close attention, and started to grasp how her body was changing. I was proud of her. She never complained or made a fuss. She just changed, like girls are supposed to do—gracefully, softly, and without bothering anyone.
Then there were the responses.
It all started when one of our sons spotted a wrapped pad in the trash. Later that night, my husband came up to me and stated, almost in a weird way, “The boys saw… something in the bathroom.” They seemed like they were really upset. “Maybe she should keep it to herself?” I inquired what that meant. Did she have to disguise the fact that she was on her period? Was being a girl a reason to feel ashamed?
His answer wasn’t mean, but it was disappointing: “It’s just that the boys aren’t used to that.” Perhaps she can store the things in her room? Or they could even use the bathroom downstairs instead? I had to fight with all my might not to yell right then.
Even so, I maintained calm. I told them that periods are not “that stuff.” They aren’t bad or embarrassing. They are natural. They give life. None of us would be here without them.
But things only got worse.
A few days later, I saw my daughter in her room with the door slightly open. The dish of food she had for lunch earlier was still on her desk. She only shrugged when I asked her why she hadn’t come down to eat. “I thought I should stay up here,” she said. “I would rather not make anyone sick.”
My heart fell.
She said her dad urged her to “just wait it out in her room until it’s over” so the lads wouldn’t feel weird. I asked her how that made her feel. She tried to seem like it didn’t hurt, but I could tell it did. That night, she cried. It wasn’t because of cramps or hormones; it was because she felt like her life had suddenly become offensive. She felt embarrassed of her figure in a manner that no girl should ever have to be. And the worst part? That humiliation wasn’t emanating from the outer world. It was emanating from inside our house.
That was the end of the line. The one I said no to everyone, even my spouse, crossing again.
I called a family meeting the next day. I didn’t ask for permission. I told everyone that we were going to discuss it. My daughter sat next to me, quiet but interested. My sons seemed nervous, but they came nonetheless. My spouse was too, but I could see he was worried about what was ahead.
I spoke clearly and quietly. I told them all how it felt to see a young girl who was innocent and curious feel tiny, dirty, or embarrassed for something that is a normal part of life. I told them what it meant to be a woman in this world: to bleed every month and yet go to school, work, clean the house, and take care of others, all while hiding it because society thought it was too “uncomfortable” for others to handle.
Then I glanced at my sons and said, “You guys aren’t bad.” You guys are wonderful. But what you don’t do isn’t the only thing that makes you a wonderful person. It’s about how you react when someone needs your help. There is nothing wrong with your sister. But she is paying attention to how you are treating her right now. That will change how she views herself for a long time.
For a while, they were quiet. Finally, my oldest son raised his hand, not knowing if he should, and questioned, “Why does it have to happen every month?” Does it hurt each time? His voice wasn’t mocking. It was real. Interesting.
I told him what he wanted to know. I answered every one of them. I watched as their distress slowly turned into comprehension. They had never learned anything about this issue before. It wasn’t on purpose. It was a lack of information, awareness, and empathy.
To her credit, my daughter also answered some of their questions. She spoke softly, but her voice was more sure than I had heard all week. At the end of the talk, one of her brothers looked at her and apologized, “Sorry if we hurt your feelings.” I didn’t fully understand what was going on. If you ever need anything, just let us know.
That moment—just offering help—changed everything.
My husband came in later that night when I was cleaning the kitchen. He looked fatigued but also like he was thinking. He said he was sorry. That he grew up in a house where his mother kept her pads concealed behind locked cupboards, where the word “period” was never mentioned out loud, and where women’s bodies were treated like they were something to be ashamed of.
He said, “I didn’t know what to do.” “But I want to do better.”
He went out the next weekend and purchased my daughter’s favorite ice cream. Then he sat down next to her in the living room and said, “You don’t have to hide anything here.” This house is also your home. She grinned, hugged him, and whispered, “Thanks, Dad.”
It wasn’t a big deal. But it didn’t have to be that way. A change in tone, a question answered instead of ignored, or an apology given without any excuses can sometimes be the most therapeutic things.
We’re still figuring things out. But now we’re learning together, and we’re not doing it in silence. We are not doing this out of shame, but rather out of support. What about my daughter? She is standing up straighter. She is standing up straighter not because the world has changed, but because we are making changes in our own home. One real chat at a time.