by a Mother, a Writer, a Walking Mess
8:13 AM – Wombageddon Begins
My eyes open to the delicate sound of a toddler yelling “Go hide!” from under my duvet, followed by a subtler, more ominous sensation: the muffled scream of my uterus beginning its monthly sacrifice to the gods of futile fertility.
Today, my body is hosting the International Pain Festival. I am, once again, the sole competitor in the “Heavy Flow and Still Expected to Function Like a Swiss Army Knife” category.
Gold is inevitable. There’s no one else deranged enough to show up.
8:29 AM – Morning Routine, Sponsored by Blood and Suffering
I waddle to the bathroom, praying I haven’t bled through to my panties. (Spoiler: I have. Again.)
I do what I must. Then, I shuffle to the kitchen and do my morning routine. I sip coffee while my uterus performs a Can-Can inside me—wearing cowboy boots this time.
My husband asks, “Are you okay?”
“Totally,” I reply, dead-eyed. “Just shedding an internal organ. You?”
8:57 AM – Solo, but Bleeding
My daughter is with the in-laws until 1 PM—a rare window of silence gifted by the chaos gods. I take this opportunity to bleed in private, like a cursed Victorian heiress with a gym membership.
I squeeze in a workout, because nothing says “I respect my body” like exercising while your uterus is trying to fold in on itself like a cursed IKEA manual. Every minute is a test of willpower, every second a battle against internal sabotage.
But I survive. I sweat. I bleed. I go on.
10:34 AM – Productivity: A Crime Scene
I sit at my laptop. Because I am, in theory, a writer. A creator. A conjurer of poignant truths. A woman bleeding profusely while trying to form a sentence. I hope to get some writing done before my daughter returns from her morning with the in-laws and the house resumes its natural state of high-pitched entropy.
I open Google Docs. Blank page. My uterus spasms.
Title idea: “Blood, Sweat, and Sanitary Pads: A Memoir.”
Alone. Bleeding. Blessedly uninterrupted. My uterus throbs with disdain.
10:55 AM – Menstrual Pad That Betrayed Me
Mid-deep squat. Rogue sock under the bed. A normal Thursday. Until I feel it—the slow, warm betrayal of what was supposed to be an ultra-absorbent, wings-secured promise of dignity.
My pad, that flimsy adhesive rectangle of false hope, has shifted. Or perhaps it has simply given up, like I did during COVID-19 pandemic.
I rise slowly, like a cursed duchess in a historical drama, waddling toward the bathroom with the posture of someone who’s just realised her pants are no longer safe for public consumption.
No one is here to witness my descent into hygiene betrayal. So I look in the mirror and whisper, “It’s not leaking. It’s spiritually exfoliating.”
12:06 PM – Lunch with the Family (a.k.a. Culinary Olympics)
My daughter is still with the in-laws (bless them), and my husband is in the kitchen, doing what he does best: preparing a feast worthy of a restaurant. I assist by bleeding quietly in the corner and pretending to be useful.
The table is set. The food is hot. The mood is warm. And still, somewhere between the roasted zucchini and the second helping of rice, my mind wanders:
“Did the child eat enough?”
“Do you think she needs more vegetables?”
“Should I rest? Or drink red wine?”
There is no judgment.
I chew gratefully, uterus still whisper-screaming in the background, and think: if I must bleed, at least it’s in a home where love is served in ladles, laughter comes easy, and every bite tastes like someone cares more than they’ll ever say out loud.
1:13 PM – The Hormonal Apocalypse Arrives on Schedule
My daughter is home, pre-lunch and fueled entirely by crumbs and chaos. She’s screaming because I won’t give her chocolate, and honestly, I respect her passion. I also want chocolate. Desperately. But I’m supposed to be an adult. Whatever that means.
Meanwhile, my uterus decides this is the perfect moment to unleash a fresh wave of medieval pain. I breathe through it like a yoga teacher with a grudge and attempt to reason with a small person holding a very large grudge over Kinder Jaje.
I briefly fantasise about a remote cabin where no one argues about snacks and the only sound is the gentle rustle of ibuprofen packets.
3:18 PM – Still Bleeding, Now Going Grocery Shopping
Despite having lost what feels like half my soul and most of my will to live, I am now expected to go out of the house, with my husband and daughter to go grocery shopping.
My in-laws pop in to ask if “we’re going out” I dramatically say “yes, do you need anything?”
“No, but you don’t look so good”. Well, thanks, believe me–I know.
7:45 PM – Bedtime? A Cruel Joke
The bedtime process begins, a.k.a. the toddler stage production of No Sleep Ever: A Musical in Three Acts. I read stories while trying not to groan every time my uterus pulses with the force of a minor earthquake.
My husband appears, kisses my forehead like I’m a battle-worn general, and whispers, “I love you.”
If only love translated to eight uninterrupted hours of quiet and a functioning pelvic floor.
11:43 PM – Uterus: Still Mad
Everyone is asleep except me. While I think about my uterus doing an interpretive dance choreographed by Satan, I lie awake, thinking things like “Why does it feel like my uterus is punishing me for the sins of my ancestors?” and “Can one overdose on ibuprofen and bitterness?”
There is no justice. Only cramps, existential resentment, and not even a snack I will regret by morning.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering—why must I bleed, suffer, and still be expected to emotionally manage three generations of family?
Ah yes. Because patriarchy.
Final Thoughts:
Men will never know what it’s like to travel while bleeding, working, exercising, or simply existing in a world that expects you to perform miracles while your body is literally trying to expel an organ.
They’ll never know what it’s like to host a uterine exorcism while preparing lunch for twelve family members, answering emails, or doing anything that requires concentration beyond “How do I look in this shirt?”
But we do it. Every month.
Because we are women. Bleeding, brilliant, emotionally resilient warlocks of survival.
And tomorrow? We rise again. Sore, sarcastic, slightly iron-deficient—but upright.
Until menopause. And then–hormones?
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