The incident involving an American male pundit, who threw a tampon at a female colleague mid-debate with all the finesse of a misfired pub dart, left me feeling gobsmacked. Shock turned quickly to outrage, and then, after I calmed down, to self-reflection.
What would I have done if it had been me in the hot seat? I like to imagine I’d have delivered a swift, sardonic takedown, something sharp and witty, perhaps even going viral for all the right reasons. But in truth? I’d likely have frozen. Not from fear, but from that deep-seated conditioning so many of us women carry: be composed, don’t make a fuss, don’t cause a scene.
The moment stayed with me, looping in my mind like a bad reality TV rerun. Why? Because the man had shown up to a conversation with a group of women armed. Tampons don’t spontaneously materialise in men’s pockets. This wasn’t improv. He had packed his ammunition. It wasn’t a protest, it wasn’t performance art, it was an act of calculated ridicule. And somehow, in the quiet spaces between my rage, it made me think about menstruation, shame, and how our responses are shaped long before we ever step into a boardroom.
When I first started bleeding, I was 11 years old. I woke up in my bed to blood between my legs and a sense of dread I couldn’t quite name. My mother walked in and delivered a rather perfunctory update on what was happening, as if I’d just been assigned a new lifelong household chore. And in a way, I had.
The 1970s weren’t exactly the era of open and healthy conversations about womanhood. Our sanitary products were closer in design to sleeping bags than today’s sleek, paper-thin options. Giant pads with loops at each end, fixed to a belt you wore like a secret shame under your clothes. I remember vividly the day I had to ask for them at the pharmacy, a small shop with tall wooden counters and a man in a white coat who looked vaguely horrified by my request. I whispered it like a confession.
That whisper became a habit.
Years passed. The shame lingered, never explicit, always implied. Periods were something to manage privately, discreetly. Don’t talk about it. Don’t leak. Don’t complain. Just cope.
It wasn’t until perimenopause barged into my life like an unruly guest that things truly came undone. The bleeding became heavier, more erratic, utterly unmanageable at times. There was one occasion etched in my memory with embarrassing clarity when I stood up to see a male client out and felt a sudden warm flood rush down both legs. It filled my shoes. It puddled on the floor. There was no hiding it, no escape hatch. Just shame, immediate, total, overwhelming.
I was inconsolable. Not just because of the physical mess, but because of what it meant. After decades of stoicism and silence, I had failed to keep the secret. My body had outed me.
And yet, as I wiped the tears, something began to shift to a space of honesty and shared experience, that I started to question where all this shame had come from in the first place. Why did I feel humiliated for something so profoundly human? Why had I, like so many others, absorbed the message that to be a woman was to manage quietly, stoically, and in silence?
Because here’s the unvarnished truth: every human being on this planet, man, woman, non-binary, comes from a woman who bleeds (or once did). Whether via natural conception, IVF, egg donation, or surrogacy, there is a menstrual cycle in the story somewhere. A womb. A body that stretched, changed, and gave. So again, why the shame?
The answer lies in what happens after birth. Not the act of being born, but what you’re born into. Your family’s values, your cultural messages, your social class. What you witness, what you absorb. Were emotions welcomed or suppressed? Was conflict modelled constructively or swept under the rug? Was vulnerability strength or weakness?
If we grow up in homes that are nurturing, supportive, and emotionally attuned, we learn that we have the right to be seen and heard. But if the environment is cold, chaotic, critical, or emotionally absent, we learn instead to hide our feelings. We become high-functioning perfectionists. We become people-pleasers. We shape-shift. We stay quiet when disrespected, sometimes even when a tampon flies past our face.
Anger builds. Sometimes toward the parent who yelled or punished. Sometimes toward the one who watched and did nothing. As adults, that anger either leaks out in sarcasm and spite, or it turns inward. We push ourselves harder. We fear not being good enough. We say “yes” when every cell in our body screams “no,” and we call it professionalism.
In the workplace, this plays out in countless ways. Unconscious bias. Self-sabotage. The polished but perpetually exhausted woman in the corner office who doubts her every word. The brilliant intern who won’t speak up. The middle manager who fears showing vulnerability because she thinks it’s weakness, not wisdom.
The Women in Leadership programme doesn’t hand out easy answers. But it does offer space to explore what shaped us, and space to unlearn. We discuss impostor syndrome, yes, but more importantly, we explore its origins. We talk about power, not as dominance, but as presence. As authenticity. As truth spoken without apology.
And that is what the tampon incident really revealed. It wasn’t just an outrageous act by one man. It was a symbol of how far we still have to go, and of how often women are expected to carry not only our own professionalism, but the dignity of others too.
So, the next time someone lobs a tampon your way, literally or metaphorically, pause. Breathe. Reflect. Let it be a reminder of how far you’ve come. You are not a girl in a pharmacy, whispering your needs. You are a woman in leadership. And if you choose to respond, may it be not with shame, but with strength, clarity, and possibly a very dry and impeccably timed retort.
Asatoma’s Women in Leadership Development Pathway is structured into five core modules designed to empower women with the mindset, skills, and confidence to lead effectively and authentically. For more information, email us at info@asatoma.org or call us on 0121 262 4136.
#Leadership #WomenInLeadership #DEI #Shame #Menstruation #WorkplaceCulture
