I'm tired of hiding my period.

I’m tired of hiding my period.

I’m tired of discreetly slipping a pad into my pocket, up my sleeve, or tucking it under my shirt like it’s contraband. Like I’m smuggling shame from one room to another. God forbid someone sees a pad in my hand—they might just know I’m on my period. Apparently, that is still unacceptable.

I’m tired of crouching over the bathroom trash can, carefully layering toilet paper over my rolled-up used pad like I’m burying a secret. A secret that I never agreed to keep. I’m tired of feeling like I have to make other people comfortable, like they shouldn’t have to see or hear or even think about what I go through every month.

I’m tired of trying to open a pad in a public restroom like it’s some kind of covert military operation. Holding my breath. Waiting for a toilet to flush so I can rip the wrapper open under the noise. Timing my movements so no one hears. Because, god forbid, a stranger knows I’m on my period. Like that makes me disgusting. Or less. Or somehow inappropriate.

I’m tired of carrying around a used pad in a Ziploc bag just because I didn’t want to burden someone else with having to dispose of it after I put it in their bathroom trash. As if my existence—my biology—is something I should apologize for. As if a pad in their garbage is the most cumbersome, offensive thing to deal with.

I’m tired of pretending like I’m not in discomfort or pain. Of showing up and pushing through and smiling because I don’t want to be seen as weak or difficult or dramatic. I’m tired of the expectation to act like nothing is happening. Like I’m not bleeding. Like my back isn’t aching, and my uterus isn’t twisting itself into knots.

I’m tired of holding in my coughs or laughs so that I don’t need to use another pad or bleed through what I have on. As if my body has to stay still, quiet, careful—not just to avoid shame, but to avoid leaking. Like I’m not allowed to be fully present in my own body unless I can guarantee I won’t make a mess. Unless I can guarantee I won’t remind anyone that I’m bleeding.

I’m tired of paying for menstrual products. Pads, tampons, liners, painkillers, heating pads, extra underwear—every single month. As if I chose this. As if I asked to bleed. As if basic bodily functions should come with a price tag. And then there’s the shame—having to quietly ask for a pad at the front desk, like it’s some dirty secret. Hiding pads under other items at the store. I didn’t opt into this. So why am I taxed, charged, and made to feel like this is just the cost of being a woman?

I’m tired of being told to “keep it down” when I talk about periods. Of being told it's “not appropriate” or “too much information.” I’m tired of people flinching at the word, like it’s vulgar. Menstruation? Period blood? Pads? Cramps? That’s gross. Embarrassing. Private.

I’m tired of the jokes, the eye rolls, the way people—mostly men, but not always—ask, “Is it that time of the month for you?” whenever I’m angry, emotional, assertive, or just not in the mood to deal with their nonsense. Like I couldn’t possibly be upset for a valid reason—I must just be hormonal, irrational, overreacting. It’s an easy excuse, right? Easier than listening. Easier than admitting that sometimes, I’m just angry. And I’m allowed to be. What kind of excuse is that? My feelings don’t need hormonal validation to be legitimate. I'm allowed to be upset. I’m allowed to feel deeply. I’m allowed to have a voice, even if I’m bleeding.

I’m tired of treating my period like something I need to manage in secret. Something to hide. To minimize. To silence. Because it’s not a secret. It’s not dirty. It’s not a flaw or a weakness. It’s not something I should be made to feel ashamed of. It’s the whole reason I’m alive. My mother bled, just as her mother did before her, and through that blood, I came into being.

It’s my body. It’s my cycle. It’s my experience. I’m done pretending like it needs to be hidden. I bleed, but I’m not sorry. Not for the blood, pain, or noise.

I’m done hiding.