When I got my diagnosis* for endometriosis, my first thought was: “Okay, this isn’t good, but at least I finally have a name for my pain”.
My second thought was: “Oh my god, how am I going to talk to my parents about this?”
That’s because I grew up in a South Asian Muslim household where periods – and the pain I got alongside them – were never openly talked about.
I realised then that I didn’t have the right vocabulary to explain this issue to them. And I definitely did not know how to talk about it in a way that wouldn’t be painfully uncomfortable (for all parties involved, not just my parents).
I realised then that I didn’t have the right vocabulary to explain this issue to them.
So, over the next couple of days, I dreaded the conversation I knew I eventually needed to have.
I tried to Google it.
How do I tell my brown parents about endometriosis?
Nothing.
How do I talk to my brown parents about period pain?
Nothing.
Let’s substitute brown for desi.
Okay, maybe something. Nope. Not what I’m looking for.
Now there was nothing big I can pinpoint growing up that made me turn desperately to the internet for guidance when it came to this topic. Instead, there was an overarching and pervasive hush-hush culture about periods that women around me upheld.
I knew I was expected to uphold it too.
I got my period early – earlier than anyone else at school, earlier than our teachers had that talk with us. One night in Ramadan, I woke up to eat sehri, and found myself covered in blood. I had no idea what was happening to me, and naturally thought I was going to probably die, so I ran down to the kitchen to find help. The only person there was my dad.
Taking one look at me, he told me to find my mum or grandmother. I didn’t understand why he wasn’t rushing to help me himself.
When I found them, they were horrified that I had shown my dad. They took me to the bathroom, gave me a pad and not much more than that.
When I found them, they were horrified that I had shown my dad. They took me to the bathroom, gave me a pad and not much more than that.
My confusion turned to anger. I tried to hold onto my one small win - turns out you don’t have to fast during your period. It wasn’t the fasting I minded. I actually enjoyed fasting. I felt connected to my spiritually. I felt calmer, more disciplined, more in control. What I hated was having to wake up well before the sun had even risen for a whole month every year.
Thing was, I couldn’t just tell my dad or brothers explicitly the reason behind why I wasn’t fasting. Even with the women in my family I used coded language. We call it chutti – holiday, in Urdu. Our once a month well-deserved break from religious obligations.
I don’t remember when exactly I started sliding my pads into my sleeves to sneak them into the bathroom. I know I was never explicitly told to act this way, but it didn’t matter whether my dad was in the corridor or my sister, I would always hide it.
I still have the compulsion to act this way now.
Self-censorship around my period is something I’m actively unlearning now. When I catch myself trying to hide my pad, I talk myself into carrying it without shame or embarrassment or fear that I’m doing something wrong. I try not to use coded language to explain why I’m not fasting or praying, regardless of who is asking. I fought with my mum to make sure my sister knew about periods well before her first to spare her from my experience.
The thing with self-censorship around periods I realised, is that you’re not just preventing potential embarrassment and uncomfortable conversations. Sometimes you’re unwittingly letting serious health issues be swept under the rug.
I realised I was adding to a legacy of hush-hush culture when it came to pain too, not just periods. Women before me had probably carried on with their daily duties despite something being wrong – maybe because they were simply expected to, maybe because didn’t know it wasn’t normal or okay to be in so much pain.
I, too, carried on for many years. I went to work, I went to class, to the gym, to dinners. I didn’t know what a normal amount of discomfort or pain associated with a period was. That knowledge was not passed down to me.
I’m no easy child for conservative parents like mine. Growing up, I routinely lectured them about feminist issues. How public toilets are sexist by design, how the religious decree to give more inheritance to male children is no longer relevant in our modern society. Eventually they would sigh and agree with whatever it was I was arguing, just to get me to stop talking no doubt.
Most topics I brought up were far more controversial than discussing my pain, my health and my wellbeing, but still I felt more anxious about this than I’d ever felt. Maybe it was the fact that this was much more personal, which made me more vulnerable.
I tried to trust that I had prepared them to sit through the discomfort of this talk. I fought the self-censorship that had been instilled deep inside me.
I decided to tell my mum first. It felt like a safer place to start, she was a woman, maybe she would get it.
When I explained what endometriosis was, and described my symptoms, my mum confided in me. She said that she had always also had really painful periods but hadn’t known whether there was an issue. She too, was never told what was normal. She never went to a doctor about it either.
I felt conviction – like me sharing details about my pain was not just about me, but for a greater purpose – when I later told my dad.
I felt conviction – like me sharing details about my pain was not just about me, but for a greater purpose – when I later told my dad.
He was clearly uncomfortable, but I guess the years of sitting through my (frankly insufferable) rants, he was prepared. He listened, he supported, he asked questions, he even talked to my siblings about it and told them to check in on me and ask how I was doing.
On the night of my first ever period, I could have never imagined this would happen.
Now, I talk about my periods and endometriosis openly with friends, aunties, co-workers and bosses alike. I don’t force myself to work through my pain, and I don’t hide the cause of my pain even when it makes me anxious to talk about.
And I hope through these small acts of defiance, I can help other women of colour to know more about their period health, to go to the doctor if they need to, and to be comfortable having uncomfortable conversations.
*Endometriosis can only be truly diagnosed through a surgery during which it is also removed. Without surgery, a specialist can give you a good guess that you have endometriosis but cannot confirm it.
Rashna Farrukh is a freelance writer.
