My first DNS (Did Not Summit) made me a PRO Trekker

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 and honestly, I never asked.

I lie there, curled up with a hot water bag, and think:
how does she manages do all this work while I’m a puddle of hormones and heat packs and can’t take a freaking call?

This makes me think about how women in offices, in leadership roles, moms never 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, well a Tuesday.

From the time I started trekking, before every trek, I’d make a silent bargain with the universe: bhagvan, please is baar bacha lo.
For five treks, the universe played along. Then came trek number six—Kuari Pass and a -15C snow trek at that and my luck finally ran out.

This was the same trail I’d done a few months earlier. Although, it didnt had snow but I battled AMS, sleeplessness, upset stomach, headache and yet managed to do it rather comfortably. ( I know, I know – I’ve different levels of death in my mind).
But this time, every step dragged like I had weights strapped to my legs, even on the shorter days. The fatigue didn’t make sense. And the control freak in me was well freaking the fuck out.

Then, the night before summit day, it all clicked: holy hell, 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 (over and over), 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 what strength and courage means for me. I unpacked it fully in this blog: Kuari Pass Trek—An Unexpected Journey of Self-Discovery.

Two months later, I showed up for another winter trek. This time, I came prepared. Pads were tucked in with my bags. No biggie.
After finishing the trek and back at base camp, while laying out clothes for the return journey for the next day, another woman trekked spotted them.

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

She gasped like I’d just told her I planned to summit barefoot.
My tentmate who just entered the room was shocked too. We’d shared four nights and hadn’t once talked about blood.

She said, “Wait—you’ve had your period this whole trek? I couldn’t even tell. I can never 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 4 treks on my period – 2 monsoon and 2 with heavy snow.
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.
Walked the trail while being entirely soaked in rains for multiple days.
And don’t even get me started on the fact that going to pee on the trail for woman is always and extra hike in itself.
Kept walking, kept laughing, didn’t say a word.
(Edit – I openly talked about getting my periods on my 4th period trek. So openly as if I was having a cold. It was uncomfortable at first but I saw a different side of men and inspired woman.)

I never saw this as strength – especially on my first period trek-
because I didn’t make the summit,
because no one noticed,
because I didn’t speak up.

But not every strength needs an audience or an external validation. Sure, some rightfully so does.
But there’s another kind—the one that just keeps going without any narration, applause, walking silently through snow, bleeding, aching, and still managing to laugh at chai jokes in the lunch tent.

Those are the ones that aren’t always applauded. Sometimes, it’s not even noticed.
But when it is—especially by another woman—you start to see yourself differently.

And 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.”