Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned
Reader Note: This story was inspired by the movie Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, based on Judy Blume’s iconic book. For generations of 12-year-olds, Margaret was a revelation—a book that spoke honestly about the awkward, confusing, and exhilarating experience of growing up, at a time when no one else was saying the quiet parts out loud. It gave voice to the longing to fit in, the uncertainty of change, and the first whispers of autonomy over our own bodies.
The movie is charming, and the acting is superb. This story is dedicated to girlfriends, everywhere.
We need to have a talk, g.
At the naïve age of twelve, I begged and pleaded for this menstrual monstrosity. You knew what I was in for more than I did, god. I just wanted to fit in with my friends. It hit me like bloodstained white pants on picture day—mortifying, inescapable, and a lesson I’d never forget.
Never trade your truth to fit in. Never choose cruelty.
Looking back now, it ended up being a lesson that I would have to learn repeatedly, but I tried to recognize it and course correct. Considering I’m surrounded by a cherished chosen family, I’m optimistic that I succeeded in living that lesson more often than not.
Thank you for teaching it to me.
However!
Little did I know, I would spend the next forty years talking to you all the goddamn time about the same goddamn topic. My stupid period!
Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t tell you to damn yourself, that’s rude and seems vaguely masturbatory, ew. But my god, I begged for period-related favors for a host of predicaments for forty years.
Forty. Years.
All the terrifying times I willed it to please god, come already, oh my god, what if.
And the despairing times of oh please, no, whether that be because of clothing choices, tampon availability, dreams of creating a family, or really hoping to get laid that night.
Speaking of which, thank you for creating, like, sex or whatever? It’s been a lot of fun practicing that sport over the years. OH! And uh, thank you for the, er, toys and whatnot, that help make sex still a blast, even through insane and decidedly terrifying bodily changes. There is some innovation in this world of yours, I tell you. Well done you.
Anyway, it sort of felt like a forty-year sentence, g, and it ended with hot flashes and sleepless nights and *surprise* periods — repeatedly when I had fine clothes on and no way to hide, mind you.
Oh, but now.
I mean, it’s a big deal when it starts. Of course, it was bound to be a big deal when it ended as well. We are fucking magical, and we don’t remember it often enough.
Oh, but now.
I mean, let’s face it. I am basically a superhero.
No more periods, no more tampons, no more birth control, no more counting days, no more pregnancy scares. My hot flashes are limited to admiring hot bods with zero guilt about it. Because why the fuck not?
Oh. But. Now.
After years of watching myself spend too much time should-ing all over myself, the *shoulds* in my head are quieting. And if I’m lucky, I’ve got thirty or forty more years of this glorious, empowered, blissfully badass life. Are you freaking kidding me!?
It helps me forgive you for the forty-year menstruation sentence, I’ll tell you that.
Once again, g, you have delivered, but this time, just like when I was twelve, I find myself wondering if you really exist in the way I thought.
Only a woman would save the best for last like this.
Only a woman would devise such a gift, such a treasured liberation, as a reward for glorious work well done.
Only a woman would gift this absolute motherfucking superpower.
Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned. You were clearly never, ever, a dude.
I’ve reached post-menopause at last, g, and I’ve never felt closer to you. Sometimes I think I might actually *be* you. I mean, I spent my life creating life, creating art, creating communities. Or perhaps I’m just better able to recognize the gifts you’ve given me. Or perhaps you’re a mirror in the sky.
Why did no one tell us how amazing this part of our lives would be?
Only the dastardly patriarchy, steeped in hypocrisy and false righteousness, would try to hide such joy!
I’ve got wisdom, I’ve got experience, I’ve got confidence. I sleep like a baby again!
And for the first time ever, I do not care whether I’m pleasing anyone.
I mean, most of the time. Not quite all the time. But most of the time.
Let’s settle on *more* of the time.
Stevie Nicks wrote:
So with the slow, graceful flow of age
I went forth
with an age old desire to please
On the edge of seventeen
Girl, same. It’s a hard habit to break, but I’m doing it.
And just as you taught me when I was twelve, I do not desperately try to fit into some imaginary standard, nor do I reject stories that do not match my own. Instead, I see and respect all of the variety of ways we go through this unique and powerful thing called womanhood.
Help me write well, g.
Next up, I’m going to need your help dismantling the last remnants of this fucking patriarchy that keeps trying to kill us. They are no different than the charlatans who preached things like:
“The menopause is a time of instability, irrationality, and despondency, during which women are liable to commit suicide or be locked up in asylums.” — Sir William Gowers, a prominent British neurologist, in the late 19th century.
and
"The menopausal woman is simply an old woman, and we should treat her accordingly." - Dr. Robert A. Wilson, author of the book "Feminine Forever", popular in my lifetime.
We’ve come a long way, but the fight isn’t over. When Congress or the Supreme Court is more than 50% women, maybe. When the President, the Speaker of the House, and the Vice President are all women at the same time, maybe. When elected officials aren’t implementing policies to track our periods and our travel across state lines, maybe. When someone who repeatedly assaults and belittles women is shunned from society and imprisoned rather than leading a country, maybe.
I’ve got zero tolerance for cruelty and zero tolerance for lies. And for the first time, I know my power. The wind is rising, g, and I am no longer asking for permission. I'm gonna do my part to burn this old world down, and I'll be wearing ridiculously comfortable shoes while I do it.
It's glorious.