Midol, Dunkin’, and a One-Degree Shift

Renovations Revelations #4: What a kitchen renovation revealed about period shame and asking for help.

Don’t feel like reading, listen here

The first time I got my period I was at a friend’s house and had no idea what was happening.
I abruptly left and walked home, where I sat contemplating and fearing…having to tell my mom.

I was afraid to tell my mom.

Up until that point, my knowledge about the menstrual cycle came from moments like this:

PMS was “something mommy gets once a month.”
A period was “something that happens when mommy bleeds.”

I knew sometimes it made her lay in bed.
Sometimes she couldn’t do things because she was bleeding a lot.

I also learned from my dad that it was something gross.
Not to be talked about in front of him.

In fifth grade, before we watched “The Movie,” a girl in my class told me,
“I don’t need to watch it. I already know what happens. You piss blood.”

I remember being mortified.
Like what the actual fuck?!

Then I watched The Movie, and my biggest takeaway was when my gym teacher said:
“This is not an excuse to get out of gym class. Exercise is actually good for you when you’re on your period.”

Why am I sharing this?
What does it have to do with renovations?

Mostly nothing.
I’m sure if I thought hard enough, I could come up with a metaphor but I will spare us all.

I’m sharing this because last Friday the 13th, something magical happened.

A part of me healed.

I was 13 when I got my first period.
Dead of summer.
The day before my first sleep-away soccer camp.

It was scary and traumatic to say the least.
But so were all the messages I had absorbed before and after about “womanhood.” (Bigger metaphor there.)

During this kitchen renovation, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting.
And a lot of time putting my life into piles.(metaphorically and literally)

So when I woke up that Friday in so much pain with no access to Midol because my house was in literal ruins.  I called someone and asked for help.

This had never occurred to me before.

It was something to endure myself.
Outside of borrowing a tampon.
Or asking my partner to be a personal DoorDasher.

Or so I thought.

There’s a memory of me at 16, pleading with my dad on the nurse’s office phone to come home because I was in so much pain.

“You’re fine. Every woman goes through this.”

Now my dad, not having a uterus, had no fucking idea what he was talking about.
But I didn’t know any better either.

So the message solidified:
Deal with your discomfort alone.
Maintain other people’s comfort.

Fast forward more than ten years.

Now I do know better. So I do something different.

I don’t know how they will react.
I don’t pre-edit myself.
I just ask.

“Can you get me Midol?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m on my period. It helps.”
“Ewwww.”
“Don’t ‘ew’ me.” “Everyone goes through it,” I say with sas.
“Not me. I haven’t had one in a while.”
“Dad, can you just go to CVS?”

Up until this point, I really haven’t talked to my dad about this stuff. For all the reasons above.

Was he uncomfortable? Probably.

Did he bring me Midol AND Dunkin’?

Hell yes he did.

And what hit me right before bed was this:

I had spent so many years mind-reading my dad.
Assuming rejection.
Bracing for dismissal.

Even though I know — deep in my bones — he would do literally anything for me.

My incongruent thinking led me to actions that didn’t support my truth.

My honest belief is that things work out in my favor.
My dad will help me.
That I don’t have to do everything alone. 

THAT I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR OTHER PEOPLE’S REACTIONS.

I made myself small for years.
Accepted the sexist comment at the end of the conversation.

When all I needed was a one-degree shift.
One more sentence.
One more ask.

And boom.
Midol.
Dunkin’.
Relief.

It wasn’t perfect.
(It would be cool if I didn’t have to endure the “ewww.” That’s alignment work for another day. His, not mine.)

But it was healing.

With far too much caffeine in my system,
Good night.

Candice

P.S There’s more to Friday the 13th.
It involves a trash bag, a very bloody tampon, and cracking the code on invisible labor.
If you want a more aggressively human continuation, click HERE.

Renovations Revelations is my ongoing series exploring what literal renovations reveal about internal ones. Through raw, human moments—sometimes messy, sometimes funny—I unpack boundaries, invisible labor, mental load, congruency, and growth. Each reflection considers Self, Other, and Context, proving that even small shifts can create lasting healing.