It was the 4th of July in 1999. I stepped into my mother’s bathroom for a brief break from watching Pokémon on my box television. As I looked in the mirror, I noticed my oversized, torn white Spice Girls t-shirt and the mismatched scrunchies holding my lopsided pigtails. I perched on the toilet, swinging my legs since my feet didn’t quite reach the floor yet. Glancing down, I saw what appeared to be brown and red watercolor stains on my underwear. I wasn’t scared; I associated bad things with pain, and this didn’t hurt. I knew I needed to show my mother.
I removed my underwear and held it up, fastening my high-water jeans before stepping out. My mother was in the kitchen rummaging through the cupboard.
“Mommy,” I called, but she didn’t respond. I tried again, “Mommy, I don’t know what this is.” Still, she ignored me. Finally, I unbunched my underwear and held it out to her.
Her reaction was instant. She dropped the box of oatmeal and looked at me with horror, sending a wave of fear through me. “OH MY GOD. NO! NO! YOU’RE GOING TO GET PREGNANT!” She snatched the underwear from my hand and grabbed the landline phone, dialing frantically.
I stood there, waiting for her to explain what was happening. “JANE. JANE. HOW THE HELL COULD THIS HAPPEN? SHE’S GOING TO HAVE SEX!” I realized she had called my aunt. With the dried marks still on my fingers, I wandered back to my bedroom and flopped onto my bed, turning the television back on to resume my cartoons. I thought, “If I die, I bet God will let me watch all the cartoons I want!”
My mother never told me what to do, so I assumed everything was fine, but “sex” and “pregnant” sounded bad.
A day or so later, I found myself at my aunt’s house, where she called me into the dining room. “Hey, sweet girl, I want to teach you something,” she said, knowing I loved learning. She pulled a magnetic dry-erase board from the fridge and explained where the watercolor stains came from and how often it would happen. “It’s okay. It just means you are becoming a big girl, Sarah,” she reassured me, showing me what pads were and promising to find some “just my size.”
My aunt’s calm demeanor always comforted me, and I thought the world would treat my new “big girl” status similarly. I was mistaken.
Periods can be unpredictable, especially for beginners. One day in third-grade science class, I felt dampness in my pants and raised my hand to go to the restroom. I grabbed my tiny purse, preparing just in case. A couple of girls giggled at me as I left the class.
After closing the stall door, I noticed one of the girls had followed me. I tried to discreetly unwrap my pad, but the crinkling plastic gave me away. The girl stood by my stall, waiting. With no trash can inside, I had to wrap up the packaging and discard it in front of her. I flushed the toilet and opened the door, facing my fate.
“Hi, Patricia,” I said.
“I WON’T TELL ANYONE!” she exclaimed, suppressing more giggles. I didn’t understand why it needed to be a secret, so I thanked her. Soon after, I found myself uninvited to my classmates’ birthday parties. I vividly recall a girl with a pool, excitedly asking if I could attend.
“My mom says you can’t,” she replied.
“But why?” I asked.
She glanced around and whispered, “Because you’ll bleed everywhere. And she said you’ll look inappropriate.”
I was wearing a training bra at the time, having developed rapidly after starting my period. Kids’ clothing no longer fit me, leaving me in an awkward mix of young girl and junior styles. While I lost invitations from girls, suddenly boys who had previously ignored me were asking me over. I couldn’t contain my excitement when invited to a popular boy’s pool party.
I remember feeling scrutinized by the boys, who tugged at my bathing suit. I convinced myself they were just playing with me because they liked me as a person. That’s all I ever wanted.
After severe bullying, I transferred to a small private school, which I loved. Uniforms meant less judgment about outfits, and the small class size gave me more attention and a sense of safety. I quickly bonded with two girls, including Cassy, who invited me to her house after school.
I was excited to make friends again. However, when I met her family, I felt a twinge of insecurity. Cassy later informed me that her grandmother thought I was a “slut.”
“Why?” I asked, heart sinking.
“She said you look too mature for your age, and she doesn’t want me to be influenced by you.”
I felt like I had been hit. My self-esteem plummeted as I walked away, eyes watering. Years of desiring acceptance turned to self-loathing. I didn’t understand what a “slut” was or why I was labeled as one. I believed I was fundamentally unlikable and a danger.
Please learn from my experience and don’t shame the young girls in your life. If discussing their development makes you uncomfortable, seek knowledge, involve someone they trust, and do better. Resources are available, such as this article that explores gender stereotypes. Teach them to embrace themselves and the changes they face. Most importantly, help them recognize they are more than their bodies. These narratives can stick with them for life—I know they have with me.
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