Periods Aren’t Embarrassing — Men Are

I’m about to have a hysterectomy at 30. Not because I want to, but because my endometriosis has turned my uterus into a war zone. It’s the kind of condition that doesn’t just ruin days — it ruins years. My womb has been waging battle against me since I was thirteen, and I’ve finally decided it’s time to call a truce by surrendering it entirely.

Before we even talk about period embarrassment, let’s talk about the bleeding itself. The kind where you go through a tampon and a postnatal pad in under an hour. The kind that doesn’t care about your outfit, your plans, or your sanity. It’s the kind of bleeding that makes you sit on a towel in your car just in case. I’ve carried spare leggings, pads, wipes, painkillers, and enough caffeine to fuel a small army — all because of my endometriosis.

And yet, even after surviving that chaos, I still found myself apologising. Apologising when I leaked. Apologising when I couldn’t move because it felt like knives were rearranging my organs. Apologising for something my body did naturally. Women are taught to say sorry for bleeding, and that’s the problem.

Somewhere along the way, we were conditioned to believe that menstruation is shameful. That if you bleed, you hide it. You wrap your tampon in layers of toilet paper like it’s contraband. You whisper to your friend in class asking for a pad. You flush twice to hide the sound. You wear black leggings because heaven forbid someone sees a spot of red and realises you’re human.

We’ve normalised shame to the point that girls are more embarrassed to ask for a pad than men are to send unsolicited dick pics. Think about that. Society has made it more acceptable for men to broadcast their genitals than for women to talk about their wombs. That’s menstrual stigma in action.

I once had a male coworker who turned pale when I said the word tampon. The same man who could spend his lunch break watching horror movies where heads explode in slow motion. So, watching gore was fine, but talking about a natural bodily function? Too far. Menstrual blood is real blood, but apparently that’s too much reality for some men.

If we were less afraid of men’s delicate sensibilities, maybe they’d actually understand a bit more about our biology. I’m sick of seeing comments from men asking women why they can’t just “hold it in” — as if menstruation is some kind of voluntary sport. Or worse, the ones confidently declaring that women can “choose not to have periods” if we don’t want them. As if we’re sitting here, calendar in hand, saying, You know what would really spice up this week? Cramps, bloating, and blood loss. Like anyone wants this.

And here’s where the absurdity peaks — period products weren’t even tested with blood. They were tested using water. Because the men who designed them didn’t want to deal with actual blood. They didn’t even bother to simulate reality. That’s how little effort has gone into women’s comfort. A billion-dollar industry built on misunderstanding women’s bodies.

Then there’s the advertising. That ridiculous blue dye. That weird, sterile, sci-fi liquid poured onto pads in commercials. Because god forbid we use red — the actual colour of blood. Men are so delicate that even a realistic depiction of menstruation makes them squirm. But shouldn’t we be making people uncomfortable with the truth until it stops being uncomfortable?

One of my worst experiences with period embarrassment happened in a shopping centre. My endometriosis flared and I felt that dreaded warmth — I’d leaked through everything. I ran to the toilets, praying I wouldn’t leave a trail behind me. But I did. A red streak down my jeans, a blood mark on the seat. And I cried in that stall, mortified that my body had dared to be visible.

Looking back, I’m furious. Furious that I was more concerned about what strangers thought than about the pain that left me barely standing. Women are taught to shrink into themselves rather than accept that this is what our bodies do. We bleed because we’re capable of creating life. But instead of reverence, we get ridicule.

And honestly, I can’t help but ask — if men had periods, would things be different? Would there be free pads and tampons in every public toilet? Would menstrual leave already be law? Would there be ads about “embracing your inner beast” with slow-motion blood splatters and motivational music? Probably. Because when men experience something, the world adapts. When women do, we’re told to toughen up — quietly.

Periods have long been used as ammunition against us. “She’s moody because she’s on her period.” “She’s hormonal.” “She shouldn’t lead, she’s bleeding.” Men act like our hormones are a flaw, as if testosterone hasn’t started more wars than oestrogen ever could. Menstrual stigma isn’t just about shame — it’s about control. When you make women feel disgusting about their bodies, you make them easier to silence.

So why are we still embarrassed? Why do we let men be squeamish about the very thing that allowed them to exist? Every single person walking this planet exists because someone had a period. That’s not gross — that’s miraculous.

It’s time to stop apologising. Stop whispering. Stop pretending. Stop saying sorry for leaks, for cramps, for pads in handbags, for bathroom runs, for being alive. Period embarrassment is not a personality trait; it’s a symptom of patriarchal conditioning. The more we talk about it, the faster it loses its power.

I’ve bled through every outfit imaginable — in classrooms, on trains, in offices, at the gym, on dates. I could write a memoir titled Fifty Shades of Red and still not cover every incident. But I refuse to be ashamed anymore. It’s blood. It’s biology. It’s survival.

My upcoming hysterectomy at 30 feels both devastating and liberating. I’m losing something that’s caused me nothing but pain, but also something that tied me to womanhood in a way I can’t explain. I won’t bleed anymore, and part of me already misses that messy, human reminder of my body’s strength. But mostly, I’m angry that it had to come to this — that I had to give up an organ to stop suffering.

Still, I’m determined to speak openly about it. Because silence helps no one. If me talking about endometriosis and period embarrassment makes even one woman feel less alone, it’s worth it. We need conversation, not censorship. We need honesty, not euphemisms. And we need solidarity — the kind that says “Hey, you’re okay,” when someone leaks through their jeans instead of staring.

So next time you come on unexpectedly, don’t mutter an apology. Don’t whisper in shame. Say, “My body’s doing its job.” When you see another woman with a stain, offer her your jumper, your pad, your empathy. We bleed. We survive. We continue.

Because the truth is this: there is nothing embarrassing about being alive enough to bleed.