Every month, without fail and with the timing of an uninvited calendar alert, the menstrual cycle announces itself. There is no polite warning, no “schedule meeting” notification, but a sudden hormonal coup inside the body. It is the only time the body resembles a plumbing emergency while professionalism requires you to behave like a Swiss watch.
And yet, from our earliest school days, many of us learned the art of concealment. Pads were smuggled like contraband in crinkly black polythene packets, sweaters were strategically tied around suspiciously stained uniforms, and entire corridor walks were executed with the stealth and composure of undercover agents, all in the hope that no one would notice the perfectly ordinary biological process we had already been trained to treat like a national secret.
The stigma begins early and follows women quietly into adulthood. By the time they enter workplaces, menstruation has already been internalised as something to be hidden, endured, and never allowed to disrupt the expectation of composure and productivity.