For years I cringed at the word “period”, anxious in dread of that one week that came every month like clockwork (I guess that’s a blessing at my big age). Picture it: Brooklyn, NY, 2003. I had just come home from a day in the 7th grade, and I went from baby girl to blossoming young woman. I was scared, and I hid my secret in shame, just like I did with everything else in my life. It became a habit, and eventually a trek for Miss Independent. That was until my back broke from all of the burdens I carried. My mother was a teenage parent when she had me, and the last thing I wanted to do was add any unnecessary stress to her agenda growing up, so I handled what I could on my own until I couldn’t anymore. That’s when she stepped in. I had no choice but to open up, and like a freshly bloomed flower, I rose. She taught me that my body was nothing to be ashamed of, and so was my cycle. Opening up to my mother taught me about the importance of sharing rather than suffering in silence, espe...