The Quiet Goodbye

I still remember being in 8th grade when all the girls were asked to stay back after school for an extra hour. We were puzzled, whispering among ourselves, trying to guess what was going on. None of us had any clue what awaited us.

Our questions were answered when the health counselor arrived. She began explaining a phenomenon that would soon become a significant part of our lives—a cycle that would visit us every month for many years. She talked about how to handle it when the time came and handed each of us a packet of sanitary napkins. I vividly recall sitting there, feeling a mix of awe and dread, wondering how I could possibly survive bleeding for four days every month. But I did survive—and eventually, it became second nature.

Back then, and even now to some extent, periods were a topic shrouded in secrecy. No one talked about them openly, let alone wrote about them in blog posts like this. I still chuckle remembering how my father would immediately leave the room during television commercials for sanitary napkins, pretending to need a drink of water or some other urgent task. We never questioned why he did that, but after the health counselor’s visit, it all made sense. Looking back now, those moments seem oddly funny, a reflection of a time when silence spoke louder than words.

Years passed. My period started. Life unfolded—having kids, embracing the ups and downs of family life. Those four days became so ingrained in my routine that their absence felt unsettling. The cycle was a companion, a quiet yet constant presence.

Then came the day that changed everything—a hysterectomy. No more periods. It’s been 10 years now. Ten years without the ebb and flow that had shaped my life since I was 13. Sometimes, without thinking, I still find myself wondering, "Why hasn’t my period started yet this month?" And then I remember: it never will.

That realization hits like a stab to the heart. It’s not just the absence of a routine—it’s the loss of a piece of my identity. The last time I had my period was on April 15, 2014. Since then, every month on the 15th, a part of me unconsciously waits, even though I know it’s in vain.

It feels like an unspoken grief, a transition that happened without ceremony. There was no warning, no time to say goodbye. One moment, it was there. The next, it was gone, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

At times, I wonder: Should I feel relieved to be free from the monthly inconvenience, the cramps, the hassle? Or should I mourn the loss of an integral phenomenon that defined my womanhood for decades? Society often tells us that femininity is tied to certain experiences, and losing my period felt like losing a part of what made me "woman." But does it?

Over time, I’ve come to see that femininity isn’t confined to a biological process. It’s in the nurturing love I give my family, the strength I’ve shown through life’s challenges, and the wisdom I’ve gained with each passing year. The absence of my period doesn’t make me less of a woman; it simply marks a new chapter—one of resilience, reflection, and redefinition.

And so, as I sit here and reflect on this quiet goodbye, I choose to honor both what was and what is. The cycle may have ended, but its significance remains, shaping the woman I continue to become.