The Quiet Strength Nobody Talks About

On Day 2 of my period, I cancel a Zoom call, reheat the same cup of coffee for the third time, and stare at the ceiling fan like it owes me rent. Meanwhile, my maid walks in, sweeping and cooking like it’s any other day. I don’t even know when she gets her period—she never lets on.

I lie there, curled up with a hot water bag, and think:
how is she this steady while I’m a puddle of hormones and heat packs?

Women in offices don’t miss a beat either. Sharp kurtas, back-to-back meetings, probably managing cramps beneath the table while giving feedback on quarterly performance.
They don’t call it resilience. They just call it Tuesday.

Before every trek, I’d make a silent bargain with the universe:
bhagvan, is baar bacha lo.
For five treks, the universe played along. Then came trek number six—Kuari Pass and a -20C snow trek at that.

Same trail I’d done a few months earlier (without snow). But this time, every step dragged like I had weights strapped to my legs. The fatigue didn’t make sense. Then, the night before summit day, it all clicked: my period had arrived.

I told my trek leader.
She didn’t blink. She didn’t do that “oh no, poor you” thing either.
She just asked, “What do you want to do?”

And that was the first time I realized how rarely anyone asks women that in moments like these—not what you should do, or what others have done, but what you want.

Could I have pushed through the summit? Absolutely.
But I didn’t need to prove anything.
Not to the mountain. Not to her. Not to myself.

I stayed back at base camp. Watched the others leave for the summit.
Let myself cry, not because I doubted the choice, but because I’d never allowed myself that kind of gentleness before.

It wasn’t a big, bold, movie moment.
It was quiet. I watched the sunrise from base camp while others climbed.
And I felt… fine. Whole. Still me.

That moment redefined strength for me. I unpacked it fully in this blog: Kuari Pass Trek—An Unexpected Journey of Self-Discovery.

Two months later, another winter trek. This time, I came prepared. Pads were tucked in with my thermals. No big deal.

At base camp, while laying out clothes for the next day, a woman noticed them.

“You brought pads?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re expecting your period?”
“Already on it.”

She blinked like I’d just told her I planned to summit barefoot.

My tentmate found out later. We’d shared four nights and hadn’t once talked about blood.

When she heard, she said,
“Wait—you’ve had your period this whole trek? I couldn’t even tell.
I don’t think I could ever do that.”

And for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond.
Because it had never occurred to me that I was doing something worth noticing.
That maybe I had been carrying something difficult with more grace than I’d allowed myself to believe.

Her reaction used to be mine too. Back when I thought periods and mountains couldn’t coexist.

Now it’s just part of my trek.
Annoying, yes.
Inconvenient, always.
But manageable.

We don’t tell these stories.
We talk about summits.
We post sunrise photos and write poetic captions about clarity.
We don’t talk about crouching in snow to change a pad.
Or waddling through ascents with bloated hips and aching backs.
We don’t talk about the quiet decisions we make in our sleeping bags—like choosing rest over glory.
Or the fact that sometimes the real summit is internal.

I’ve now done two winter treks on my period.
Changed pads in freezing bio-toilets with fingers so stiff I could barely grip the ziplock.
Managed cramps and cold together. Carried used napkins quietly tucked away.
Kept walking, kept laughing, didn’t say a word.

I never saw it as strength—
because I didn’t make the summit,
because no one noticed,
because I didn’t speak up.

But some kinds of strength don’t need an audience.

There’s strength in loud, visible pushes forward.
But there’s another kind—the kind that just keeps going without narration. The kind that walks silently through snow, bleeding, aching, and still managing to laugh at chai jokes in the lunch tent.

That kind isn’t always applauded. Sometimes, it’s not even noticed.
But when it is—especially by another woman—you start to see yourself differently.

Maybe that’s the kind of strength I want to grow into:
Not the performative kind. Not the one that posts summits.
But the kind that surprises even me.

And sometimes someone finally says, “You did all that?”
You nod, not out of pride, but recognition.
“Yes. I did.”