I was 13 when I got my first period. Instead of celebrating this natural part of growing up, I was met with shame, whispers, and restrictions. My mother hurriedly pulled me aside, gave me an old cloth, and warned me not to talk about it. “Don’t touch the kitchen,” she said. “Stay away from the prayer room.” I didn’t understand why something happening inside my own body made me impure. At school, it was worse. We were never taught about menstruation properly. When I stained my uniform once, the boys laughed, and the girls looked away. I wanted to disappear. I stopped going to school during my periods because I had no proper pads—just a piece of cloth that never felt safe. Every month, I suffered in silence, afraid of leaking, afraid of being humiliated. Buying sanitary pads was another challenge. In our village, the shopkeeper would wrap them in layers of newspaper and hand them over as if I had asked for something shameful. Sometimes, I couldn’t afford them at all. Hygiene took a backs...