Becoming a Woman. Because puberty clearly needed more drama.
I blossomed early. I was eleven years old when I experienced the first sign of true womanhood. I had spent the entire summer on my maternal grandparents’ farm—a carefree time filled with quiet reflection as I captured farm life with paper and pencil. I loved to draw and was getting quite good at sketching my Uncle Ed’s horses. I also loved gymnastics and would spend hours perfecting my cartwheels, splits, and handsprings on the front lawn. I remember two very large rocks sitting there—I used them as launch pads, cartwheeling off of them to everyone’s astonishment. I practiced that trick for hours until I got it just right.
Fun fact: backflipping off boulders was my preferred method of subtle self-expression. That, or shouting “Look what I can do!” every five minutes.
One day, after several joyful cartwheels, I took a break to go pee. When I pulled down my underpants, I saw a horrible sight. I honestly thought I might be dying. What could have caused this? I was terrified. I called out to my Auntie Elaine, who was only a few years older than me. When she saw what had shocked me, she burst out laughing. Her laughter still echoes in my ears to this day. As if thinking I was dying wasn’t bad enough—she found it funny. Eventually, she let me in on the secret and sent me to town with my grandfather to buy some pads. So not only was I recovering from humiliation, but now I had to go menstrual pad shopping with my very old-fashioned Grandpa.
Nothing bonds generations like awkward shopping trips and mutual discomfort.
Grandpa and I hit the long, dusty trail to town. It was only 12 kilometers, but with his slow driving and the fact that the highway wasn’t paved, it felt more like 30. The local store was always lively with folks from the area—many of whom were relatives. I quietly walked into the store, hoping not to draw attention. I made my way to the women’s care aisle and pondered the options. Thankfully, I’d seen a few commercials; otherwise, I’d have had no idea what to buy. I chose a 30-pack of Stayfree deodorant mini pads—although I couldn’t understand why deodorizing that area was necessary. I remember the size, shape, and image on the box vividly. The girl on the box bore an uncanny resemblance to me, which led me to believe those were the right choice.
Let’s be honest—I basically chose my menstrual product like I was casting a twin for a movie role.
To conceal my most embarrassing purchase to date, I grabbed several drawing pads, some pencils, chips, a couple of chocolate bars, and a bag of Cheesies. At the register, I was relieved to see Grandpa chatting outside with male relatives. I anxiously cheered on the cashier—silently willing her to speed up her slothy pace. I prayed, Please, please don’t come inside, especially after spotting my cousin Grant join the guys outside. Finally, the purchase was bagged and paid for, and I hurried back to Grandpa’s truck.
I made it out of that store faster than a chicken escaping bath time.
When I reflect on that moment now, I wonder how my mother—who had five daughters—didn’t find a way to prepare us for this natural, inevitable event. Why was I so alarmed? Sure, we sat through sex education classes at school, but clearly, they didn’t equip me well enough to feel comfortable or informed. There was no celebration of my womanhood—no special ritual like you see in movies. No one welcomed me into the club, offered advice, or gave comfort. It was just something that happened.
Apparently the “Club” was invite-only and my inbox got missed.
I suspect my mother didn’t experience any kind of ritual either. These traditions—or the absence of them—are passed down through generations. For earlier generations, menstruation may have been viewed more as a curse than a milestone worth celebrating. My mother’s upbringing, in a large farming family, likely mirrored mine. She was the eldest daughter in a family of ten children—seven girls and three boys. When she left for business college in the city, her youngest sister was just being born.
That’s not a family—it’s a softball league waiting to happen.
They were a hardworking bunch, as most farming families are. They lived off the land, which included cattle, sheep, chickens, and the most amazing garden. Everyone contributed to the farm’s smooth operation.
I loved those summers at Grandma and Grandpa’s. I helped wherever I could. Collecting eggs in the morning was one of my favorite chores. I also learned to catch chickens when it was time to butcher them. I was a pro—sneaking up, grabbing them by the legs, hanging them upside down, and moving them to the holding pen. Often, I was responsible for holding them steady on the chopping block while my uncle did the rest.
Not many people can say they were chicken wrangler and executioner by age eleven. I was basically poultry royalty.
Reflecting on these experiences, I realize my strong work ethic today stems largely from those farming summers. I was, by no means, a girly girl. I made a deliberate effort not to be girly. For some reason, I wanted to be able to do anything a boy could do.
The Truth By Tracy 
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