Morning Red

The moment Tara opened her eyes, she knew something was wrong. Not emotionally wrong. Not metaphorically wrong. Physically wrong. 

The ache hit first, low, heavy cramps that felt like her uterus was trying to rip its way out. Then came the warmth. Spreading. Wet. 

She peeled back her blanket, heart sinking. 

There it was. The deep, rusty red of a full overnight bleed—staining her white pajama pants, trickling down her thigh, soaking through the sheet beneath her. 

“Not again,” she whispered. 

She swung her legs off the bed, her toes squishing into fabric damp with blood. The sight of red tracks across the wooden floor would’ve been poetic if it weren’t so devastating. 

Her body had betrayed her. Again. 

Tara had dealt with PCOS since college. Diagnosed after months of missed periods, then floods. Cysts. Hormonal storms. Doctors called it “common,” but there was nothing common about bleeding so heavily you feared standing up in public. Nothing normal about fatigue that curled into her bones. 

She’d handled it like most women were trained to—quietly. 

Tampons stuffed into her sleeves. Painkillers swallowed in secret. Office meetings with a smile plastered over a body in revolt. 

But this morning? This wasn’t manageable. 

This was a disaster. 

Wrapped in a towel, a heating pad clutched to her belly, Tara curled back onto her bed. Her laptop screen glowed in the dim morning light. 9:14 AM. 

She was due in at 10. Two meetings. A client call. A team sync. The thought of sitting upright for more than ten minutes made her nauseous. 

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. 

Just say you’re sick. Food poisoning. Migraine. Anything else. 

The lie would be easy. Expected, even. 

But why? 

Why couldn’t she just say it? 

That she was bleeding too heavily to leave the house. That her cramps were debilitating. That her condition was real and that she deserved space to heal. 

But another voice inside her whispered: 

Everyone has periods. Don’t be dramatic. 

Still… she knew not everyone had periods like hers. Not everyone soaked through three pads in an hour. Not everyone cried in the shower from sheer pain. 

She opened a new message. 

Hi Greg, 
I’m feeling extremely unwell today due to menstrual health issues—specifically, very heavy bleeding and intense cramping caused by my PCOS. I’ll need to take a wellness day and rest. 

Thanks for understanding, 
Tara 

Her hand trembled over the mouse. 

Then—click. Send. 

She closed her eyes. 

Ten minutes later, her inbox pinged. 

“Of course I understand your situation, Tara. Please take care of yourself. I’m sending over a wellness kit from the office. Let us know if you need anything else. 

–Greg” 

Tara stared. 

No questions. No awkwardness. Just… kindness. 

Her shoulders fell. A tear slipped out, uninvited. 

She wasn’t used to being met with grace. She wasn’t used to being believed. 

She thought of all the times she bled through her clothes at work and didn’t say a word. All the times she curled up in a bathroom stall for a break. All the times she pushed past pain because she was too scared to say: 

“I need rest.” 

But now, she had said it. 

And the world didn’t punish her. 

It responded. 

By noon, the doorbell rang. 

Still in her oversized hoodie, Tara opened it to find a courier holding a pastel box with her company’s logo. 

Inside, nestled in soft tissue paper, were small but thoughtful items: a mini hot water bottle, a jar of herbal tea, ibuprofen, a bag of dark chocolate almonds, and a pair of ultra-soft fuzzy socks. 

At the bottom was a handwritten card: 

“Take all the time you need. Your strength is in knowing when to rest. We’ve got your back. 
—Team Moxie” 

Tara pressed the card to her chest. 

This—this was more than a care package. 

This was validation. This was her workplace saying: we believe your pain is real.  

Later that afternoon, Tara texted Maya, her close colleague and lunch buddy. 

TARA: 
I told Greg the truth. About the bleeding. The cramps. The whole thing. 

MAYA: 
Wait… you actually said it? 

TARA: 
Yes. He was incredibly kind. Sent me a wellness kit. 

MAYA: 
Tara. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that. I’ve been suffering in silence with endo. I didn’t think I could say anything. 

The message struck deep. 

It wasn’t just about her. 

It was about every girl, every woman, every person who had ever bled in silence because society made menstruation shameful. Because pain was considered private. Because admitting you were on your period meant “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” “too weak. 

When Tara returned to the office on Monday, she expected a few awkward stares. Maybe whispers. Maybe worse. 

What she got instead was Maya waiting at her desk with a smile. 

“I brought your favorite—masala chai with extra ginger,” she said, placing it down. “Also… I talked to HR. I asked about menstrual wellness leave.” 

Tara’s eyes widened. 

“They said it’s not policy—but now they’re thinking about it. Your email started something.” 

Tara blinked, stunned. 

Greg passed by, gave her a nod. “Feeling better?” he asked warmly. 

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks for understanding.” 

“Of course,” he said. “It’s about time workplaces did.” 

Two weeks later, the company launched an anonymous survey titled: 
“How Can We Support Menstrual Health in the Workplace?” 

That day, 112 responses came in. 

The HR rep later told Tara that several employees had thanked her, anonymously, for breaking the ice. 

“You said what so many of us were afraid to,” one note read. “You gave us permission.” 

Tara cried again—happy tears, grateful tears, powerful tears. 

For the first time, she didn’t dread her next cycle. 

She didn’t see it as something to hide. 

She saw it as part of her story. Her strength. Her voice. 

On her personal blog, Tara wrote a post that would go on to be shared thousands of times. 

*The day I hit send, I thought I was asking for space. 
But what I really claimed was power. 

Periods are real. The pain is real. 
And so is the need to speak. 

Wellness isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. 
It’s time we treated it that way.*