I handed my daughter an emergency pad, and she hurried to the bathroom.
Minutes later, the flight attendant came to me, saying, “Sir, your daughter… she’s asking for you.”
I found her near the lavatory, voice trembling behind the door. “Dad, I—I think I’ve bled through my pants… It’s really bad. I don’t want to come out.”
She was only thirteen, and it was just her second period. On a cramped flight with no spare clothes, of course this would happen.
The attendant, Soraya, quickly brought a sweatshirt for her to tie around her waist and handed her a discreet pouch with pads, wipes, and even a chocolate bar.
Back in our seats, Tallis rested her head on my shoulder and whispered, “Thanks, Dad.”
The next day, getting ready for a wedding, Tallis was nervous. “What if I leak again? What if someone notices?”
I knelt, looked her in the eyes, and said, “You’re not gross. You’re just human. No one’s watching for leaks—they’re worried about their own stuff.”
At the wedding, a cousin smirked and said, “Isn’t she a baby?” Tallis stood tall and said, “I’m not a baby. I’m just not insecure enough to pretend I’m an adult.”
Later, I found a note in her suitcase—from Soraya:
“Periods are part of your strength, not something to hide. The first time it happened to me, I cried for an hour. Now I fly planes in heels and carry tampons like armor. You’re going to be amazing.”
Tallis wanted to write back, and we did. Months later, Soraya’s supervisor wrote back, sharing Soraya’s nomination for an award—thanks in part to our letter—and included a free flight voucher.
Tallis smiled and said, “Do you think we’ll see her again?”
“Maybe. Or maybe someday you’ll be someone’s Soraya.”
Life throws awkward moments your way. You don’t always get it right. But when you show up and care, you become a safe place for someone.
Tallis may forget the details of that flight, but she’ll never forget she wasn’t alone.
And maybe one day, she’ll pass that strength on.
Leave a Reply