You know that feeling when you’re sitting in a meeting, or maybe just trying to enjoy your morning coffee, and you have to physically clench every muscle in your body just to keep from crying out? Let’s ground ourselves right there, in that quiet, hidden ache.

I want you to take a deep breath with me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel your shoulders drop away from your ears. That is where we start today because I suspect many of you are carrying weight that isn’t yours to bear alone. For years, I treated my menstrual cycle like a secret shame. I viewed the cramps, the fatigue, the emotional turbulence not as biological signals, but as personal failures of endurance. I thought if I were stronger, more disciplined, or simply more 'together,' I wouldn’t need to hide under a weighted blanket while watching reruns of shows I’d seen a hundred times. I believed that vulnerability was a luxury I couldn’t afford in a professional world that demanded I be always on, always bright, and always available.

But here is the truth I’ve learned after spending decades studying how our bodies heal and how they break: hiding pain doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it heavier. When we silence our struggles, we isolate ourselves from the very support systems that could help us manage them. We create a false narrative that suffering in silence is noble, when in reality, it’s often just lonely. And loneliness, as we discussed in some of our earlier conversations about mental health, is a silent killer. It raises cortisol, inflames the body, and chips away at the foundation of longevity we are all trying so hard to build.

Let’s talk about that myth for a moment. The idea that strong women don’t complain. That they power through pain with grit and grace. I used to admire that archetype. I tried to embody it. I would smile through the nausea, nod through the brain fog, and pretend that the sharp, twisting pain in my lower abdomen was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. But listen to what your body is whispering when you ignore it. It’s screaming that something needs attention. 

When we refuse to share our menstrual struggles openly, we reinforce a culture that values productivity over humanity. We tell young girls that their biology is an obstacle to overcome rather than a rhythm to respect. This has long-term consequences. If we spend our twenties and thirties pushing through severe endometriosis pain without seeking proper care, or dismissing heavy bleeding as 'normal,' we aren’t being tough. We are delaying diagnoses that could preserve our fertility, our energy, and our overall health into our forties, fifties, and beyond. Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s data. It’s information. It’s the first step toward healing.

I remember one specific Tuesday, years ago, sitting in a bathroom stall at work, tears streaming down my face because I had a presentation in ten minutes and my body felt like it was shutting down. I wanted to call someone. Any one person. Just to say, 'I’m hurting.' But I didn’t. I fixed my makeup, checked my teeth for lipstick smudges, and walked into that boardroom with a mask of composure so thick I could barely breathe behind it. 

Today, I wish I had just picked up the phone. Because connection is medicine. When we share our stories—when we say, 'Hey, my period was brutal this month, I’m exhausted,' or 'I’m dealing with some painful symptoms and need to adjust my workload'—we give others permission to do the same. We break the stigma. We normalize the human experience. Think about how different your workplace would feel if everyone knew that menstruation wasn’t a dirty word, but a monthly event that affects half the population. Imagine the empathy, the flexibility, the relief. It starts with one voice. It starts with you deciding that your pain is valid enough to speak aloud.

There is also a physiological cost to holding everything in. Stress, whether external or internalized, triggers the fight-or-flight response. Chronic stress keeps our nervous system in a state of high alert, which disrupts hormones, impacts digestion, and weakens the immune system. When you suppress the expression of pain or discomfort, you may think you’re protecting yourself, but you’re actually keeping your body in a prolonged state of tension. 

Consider the act of venting or simply describing your symptoms to a trusted friend or doctor. It engages the parasympathetic nervous system—the rest and digest mode. It lowers blood pressure. It reduces inflammation. By sharing our struggles, we are literally changing our biology. We are signaling safety to our own cells. This is not just about feeling better emotionally; it is about optimizing our physical health for the long haul. If we want to thrive into our golden years, we must learn to listen to our bodies now, not later. We must stop treating our cycles as enemies to be conquered and start treating them as partners to be understood.

So, how do we begin? It doesn’t mean you have to announce your symptoms on social media or discuss your cycle in every boardroom meeting. Boundaries are important. Self-respect is vital. But intimacy requires openness. Start small. Share one thing with one person. Maybe it’s your partner, saying, 'I’m really struggling with cramps today, can you handle dinner?' Maybe it’s your best friend, texting, 'My energy is low this week, let’s keep plans light.' 

Notice how the world doesn’t end. Notice how often people respond with compassion, not judgment. You might be surprised by how many women around you are silently enduring the same things. You are not broken. You are not alone. You are part of a vast, shared experience that deserves recognition. As we move forward, try to reframe your language. Instead of 'I’m such a mess during my period,' try 'My body is working hard right now, and I need extra care.' Small shifts in perspective lead to big shifts in self-compassion. Progress, not perfection. Be gentle with yourself as you practice this new way of being.

We also need to advocate for spaces where these conversations are safe. In my own life, I’ve made it a priority to surround myself with friends who validate my experiences rather than minimize them. Who don’t offer quick fixes or dismissive comments like 'have you tried drinking more water?' when I’m dealing with serious medical issues. Those well-meaning but harmful responses add to the burden. They make us feel like we have to defend our pain. 

Seek out communities—online or offline—where women discuss reproductive health openly. Listen to podcasts, read books, join groups that focus on holistic wellness and menstrual health. When you see others speaking their truths, it gives you courage. It reminds you that your voice matters. That your story contributes to a larger tapestry of understanding. We are building a legacy of honesty for the generations coming after us. Girls deserve to grow up knowing that their bodies are worthy of care and attention, not shame and secrecy. By speaking up today, you are paving the way for a future where no woman has to suffer in silence.

Thank you for letting me into your day. Thank you for listening, for feeling, and for being brave enough to sit with these uncomfortable truths. Remember, you are not alone in this. We are walking this path together, one honest conversation at a time. Take good care of yourself, darling. This episode is general information, not medical advice — please talk with your own doctor about your health. Until next time, keep listening to your body, and trust that your voice is powerful.