Period Poverty: Three Generations of Women
Menstruation is one of the few experiences that quietly links generations of women. It’s ordinary and extraordinary all at once — a powerful rhythm that repeats through time, even as the world around us shifts. When I look at the women in my own family, I see three very different stories of period poverty, progress, through to personal voice and choice. You could say from rags to pads to flags: three generations of women rewriting the story of periods.
My Mother: Born in 1926, Raised in Period Poverty, Silent About Struggle
My mum was born at the end of 1926, into extreme poverty. The kind of poverty that didn’t have a name back then — it was simply life. She used rags during her period because sanitary towels were a luxury, not a possibility. There was no conversation about “period poverty”, no campaigns, no charity drives. Just quiet coping.
And here’s the thing: she would never have called it period poverty. She would have brushed it off, insisted she “managed fine”, and moved on. Women of her generation carried hardship without naming it. They stitched their resilience into the fabric of everyday life.
But the truth is, she experienced period poverty long before we had the language for it. She lived it. She endured it. And she didn’t tell me about the rags for years until one day when I was moaning about something. She kept on keeping on just like women and girls do.
Me: Born in 1968, Taught to Modernise, Encouraged to Use Tampax
By the time I came along in 1968, the world had shifted. Periods were still whispered about, but there was choice — or at least the illusion of it. I was encouraged to use Tampax because that’s what “modern girls” did. It was progress, apparently. A sign of being liberated, grown‑up, forward‑thinking. My mum was older when she adopted me. This resulted in her opening up more and trying to be right at the forefront of modern ways.
Looking back, I realise I didn’t choose Tampax. Tampax was chosen for me. The messaging was subtle but strong: pads were old‑fashioned, tampons were sophisticated. And like many girls of my generation, I absorbed that without question.
We were the daughters of women who had no choice, so we mistook any choice for freedom. We also might have wondered why our blood was red and not the weird blue shown on telly adverts.
My Daughter: Born in 2004, Challenging Period Poverty — As We Should
Then there’s my daughter, born in 2004, who looks at the whole landscape of period products and simply says: “I’ll decide for myself.”
She’s a modern woman who understands that bodily autonomy includes the small things as much as the big ones. She chooses what feels right for her — not what a brand, a teacher, a mum or a generation tells her is “normal”.
And I love that for her.
She also speaks out against period poverty with a clarity my mother never had and I never quite managed because until a few years ago I thought the days of rags or no protection were long gone. My daughter sees injustice and names it. She sees inequality and challenges it.
Three generations. Three very different relationships with menstruation.
The College Comment That Says Everything
Recently my daughter told me how uncomfortable she felt going to the college box for sanitary products — because they keep condoms in the same box.
And honestly, she’s right.
Why are we still making women and girls feel awkward about accessing something as basic as period products? Why are we still packaging menstruation with shame, even when we pretend we’re being progressive?
Her discomfort isn’t the problem. The system is.
And the fact she can articulate that — out loud, without apology, being bold in a way I was told not to be — shows just how far we’ve come.
Three Women, Three Periods, One Legacy
My mum endured period poverty without naming it. I lived through period messaging which I thought was bonkers but lived with it. My daughter challenges period stigma without tolerating it.
Three generations of women, each pushing the conversation forward in her own way.
Menstruation isn’t just a biological process. It’s a cultural story. A political story. A family story. And when we talk about it — honestly, openly, without shame — we honour the women who came before us and empower the women who come after.
If my mum had had access to the products my daughter has, her life would have been easier. If I had had my daughter’s confidence, my choices would have been freer. And as my daughter has her grandmother’s grit, she’ll be unstoppable.
Actually, she already is.
Every woman carries moments that shaped her. If you feel ready to share one of yours, you’re welcome to add it to my What’s Your Story? space — a gentle corner of the internet where real voices matter.
