When Periods Cost Girls Everything

Menstruation shouldn’t be a hush-hush topic—and we cannot allow silence to become a second wound for our girls.

I speak as a grassroots woman leader working with schoolgirls in rural Kakamega, where the earth is rich but opportunity is thin, where the mornings begin with birdsong and long walks for water, and where too many girls are forced to grow up before their time.

In my community, menstruation is treated like a secret wrapped in shame. It is spoken of in hushed tones, hidden like something dangerous. Yet for our girls, it is not hidden—it is a monthly reality, as natural as the rain, but as heavy as a storm.

I remember one girl, barely thirteen, who told me, “When it comes, I feel like I must disappear.” Her words pierced me. They echoed a painful truth: when society hides a natural process, it ends up hiding the girl too.

In Kakamega, poverty is not a visitor—it is a permanent resident. Many families cannot afford sanitary towels. Some struggle to afford even soap. Water must be fetched from distant sources, carried in yellow jerry cans on small backs already burdened with responsibility.

And so, when a girl begins her period, she is not just managing her body—she is managing survival.

Some of these girls began exchanging sex for sanitary towels.

Even now, writing this feels like holding a wound open. Imagine a child trading her dignity for something as basic as protection during her period. It is like asking a child to sell her shadow just to stand in the sun. This is not choice—it is desperation wearing the mask of survival.

When I first learned this, it shook me to my core. I knew we could not look away. A wound ignored does not heal—it festers.

We started with what seemed like a practical solution: reusable sanitary towels. They were affordable, sustainable, and empowering—or so we thought.

But reality quickly humbled us.

The girls struggled to keep them clean—not because they didn’t care, but because they lacked water, soap, and privacy. A girl cannot maintain hygiene where dignity has no space. It reminded me of a simple truth: you cannot ask someone to cook when they have no firewood.

Our solution, though well-intentioned, did not match their lived reality. So we paused. We listened.

We sat with the girls—not as experts, but as learners. We asked them what would truly work for them. And from those conversations, a new idea took root.

Kitchen gardens.

We introduced small backyard gardens where girls could grow vegetables—sukuma wiki, tomatoes, onions. The idea was simple: grow food, sell it, earn money, and buy sanitary towels with dignity.

And for a while, it blossomed beautifully.

The girls watered their crops like they were watering their futures. Their hands, once empty, now held possibility. They sold vegetables in local markets and returned with small coins that carried big meaning.

For the first time, some could meet their menstrual needs without begging, without shame, without compromise.

There is a quiet pride that comes with self-reliance. You could see it in how they walked, how they spoke, how they smiled.

But change, like the seasons, is never without challenge.

Some fathers, weighed down by poverty and addiction, would take the money the girls earned and spend it on illicit brew. Just when the girls found a path, it was disrupted again. Their hard work slipped through their fingers like sand.

It broke my heart—but it did not break my spirit.

Because this journey taught me something deeper: menstruation is not just a health issue. It is an economic issue. A social issue. A gender issue. A dignity issue.

In many homes, menstruation is still surrounded by myths. Girls are told they are unclean. They are excluded from activities. They are given rules, but not understanding. Silence becomes the loudest message.

Yet menstruation is not something to hide—it is something to understand, to support, even to honor.

I think back to my own first period. There was no celebration. No open conversation. Just quiet instructions, as if something had gone wrong instead of something natural happening.

And I see the same silence passed down to the next generation.

But I also see hope.

These girls are resilient beyond words. They are like seeds growing through cracks in dry ground—against all odds, they rise. They continue going to school. They continue dreaming. They continue believing, even when the system does not fully support them.

As a community leader, I have learned that real change begins with listening. Not imposing solutions, but co-creating them. Not speaking for girls, but walking with them.

We are now strengthening our approach—combining economic empowerment with menstrual education, engaging parents, working with schools, and advocating for better water, sanitation, and policy support.

Because we must address not just the symptom, but the system.

As the proverb says, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” This journey is about going far—with our girls, with our communities, with our partners.

My dream is simple, yet powerful:

That no girl will ever have to trade her dignity for a sanitary towel.

That menstruation will be met with knowledge, not fear.

That communities will speak openly, not in whispers.

That girls will stay in school, not drop out because of something natural.

Because when you protect a girl’s dignity, you protect her future.

And when you protect her future, you transform a nation.

Menstruation should never cost a girl everything.

It is time we speak, act, and change that story—together.