> I knew about periods.
Not from anyone who held my hand and explained it gently.
But from textbooks, whispers in the dorms, and watching older girls sneak pads under their sweaters.
That's how I prepared to become a woman —
by observing, not belonging.
---
I was 14.
We were in class just before break.
I was seated, quietly listening, or pretending to.
When I felt something.
A warmth. A slow, unwelcome flow that no one else could see… but I felt everything.
Some girls around me laughed and said,
> "Let's go out!"
"Come with us!"
But I couldn't move.
Not with what I felt leaking out of me.
> I knew what it was.
And I knew I couldn't stand.
But I also couldn't tell anyone.
---
Eventually, the class emptied.
And with trembling hands, I checked.
> It was true.
I had crossed that invisible line.
The one between girl and woman.
And I had crossed it alone.
I sat back at my desk,
counting the minutes until class was over —
praying no one noticed.
But every now and then, someone would sniff and say,
> "Do you smell something weird?"
And I'd sit there, stone-faced,
while inside me everything screamed:
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
---
When school ended,
I waited for the room to almost clear,
and begged the last girl remaining to lend me a sweater.
I didn't explain.
I just whispered something desperate and quiet —
and thank God, she gave it to me.
I tied it around my waist,
walked slowly to the dorms,
and cleaned myself up the way I'd seen others do it.
---
Then I did what every girl is told to do where I come from:
Call your mother.
Because in our culture, it's supposed to be the mother who guides you.
Tells you how many days your period might last.
Tells you what to expect.
Tells you that now… you are a woman.
---
But when I called her —
she didn't sound like the woman in the stories.
She said she didn't have money.
That my dad was responsible for me.
And just like that,
my first period became a responsibility.
Not a moment.
Not a bond.
Not a rite of passage.
Just another weight passed from hand to hand.
---
Still, I had to harden up.
So I did the thing I swore I'd never do unless I had no choice:
> I called my father.
He teased me at first.
Laughed like it was a joke.
Asked me if I was sure it was what I thought.
But then —
he sent the money.
Not a word of comfort.
Not a conversation.
Just money.
And in my world,
money was the closest thing I got to love that day.
---
> That was the day I became a woman.
Not because of the blood —
but because I handled it alone,
with silence, shame, and a sweater I didn't own.
---