"Red Rivers: A Story of Strength and Stigma"

A TRUE LIFE STORY I EXPERIENCE.

Growing up, I lived in a world where conversations about menstrual cycles were shrouded in silence. It was as though they were an illness—a taboo that no one dared to break. My earliest memory of menstruation is of my big sister crying, terrified and confused, as she experienced her first period. She had no idea what it meant. Blood stained her clothes as she wandered around, lost and scared. She thought she had hurt herself, and the fear made her isolate herself from the world, shutting herself indoors. Watching her go through that, I carried a sense of dread—a fear of the unknown, waiting to pounce on me.

Years later, when I was 17, I felt unbearable stomach pain one morning. It was sharp and relentless, and I cried until I had no tears left. My aunt, the person I lived with, had already left for the market, leaving me alone with my agony. Then it happened—I saw blood. Confusion turned to terror, and terror turned into desperation. I wiped and wiped, hoping to hide it. I was terrified my aunt would punish me for what I thought was some horrible injury I had inflicted on myself. But no matter how hard I tried, the blood wouldn’t stop.

Terrified and overwhelmed, I ran into the bush, thinking it was the only way to escape the shame and punishment. I stayed there, scared and alone, until the next day. As exhaustion took over, I made my way back home, determined to change before my aunt returned and noticed. That was when my friend’s mother found me. She explained to me—kindly and gently—that what I was experiencing wasn’t an injury. It was natural. It was part of growing into womanhood. Her words were like a balm to my soul, but they also made me angry at the silence and fear that had shaped my understanding of something so ordinary, yet so vital.

As I grew older, I decided that no girl in my community would ever go through what I did—lost, scared, and ashamed of her own body. I started a small group to educate young girls about menstruation and provide them with the support I never had. We shared stories, handed out menstrual pads, and talked about the beauty and strength of womanhood. However, not everyone understood. Some parents thought I was wrong and even complained to the community chairman. But, as fate would have it, he listened to my story and gave me the chance to continue.

I have seen it, lived it, heard the whispers in the dimly lit corners of classrooms, felt the silent cries beneath forced smiles. This is not just a story—it is my truth, their truth, our truth.

Menstruation in Liberia is more than biology. It is shadowed in shame, cloaked in hushed whispers, buried under layers of discomfort and misunderstanding. Every month, a girl sits in silence, gripping the edges of her seat, afraid to move, afraid that the world will see the betrayal of her body—a stain, an unspoken mark that brands her as impure, unworthy.

Today, as I write this, I am overwhelmed with emotion, because I have open my foundation, DESTINY NASA . It is a dream that began in pain and fear but has grown into a mission of hope and empowerment. Through Destiny, I am reaching out to young girls, giving them the education and support I never had. Every girl has the right to understand her body, to embrace it without fear or shame. Though we’re still small, I know we’ll grow bigger and reach more girls in need. I hold onto that dream, because I believe in the power of change and the strength of the human spirit.

Thank you for listening to my story—a story of pain turned into purpose, and fear transformed into love. Destiny begins today.