Why I Never Tracked T.O.M (And Why Biology Eventually Won)

Not Tracking T.O.M: A Strategy Built on Hope and Denial

I never tracked when my Time Of the Month - T.O.M - would arrive. Nor did I track the subtle changes during T.O.M. itself. My strategy, such as it was, consisted of a combination of denial, vague hope, and sheer optimism that mind-power could negotiate a ceasefire with biology. Spoiler: it could not.

The First Lesson in T.O.M Humiliation

The hard way I learnt this involved embarrassment, poor clothing choices, and that particular "brand" of humiliation reserved for twelve-year-olds who are convinced they are secretly superheroes.

When Your Favourite Skirt Betrays You

One morning, I proudly wore my “favourite” skirt, blissfully unaware that my body had other plans. Let’s just say, by the end of the day, my skirt had joined the conspiracy.

I had also, in true twelve-year-old delusion, decided that mind-power alone could stop it altogether. A few hours of intense concentration, I thought, and voilà: no T.O.M., ever again. This belief survived even when my mother gently suggested, “Darling… maybe pack some supplies, just in case.” I dismissed her entirely. Motherly warnings were clearly to challenge my mental prowess!

School did not help. In fact, school was spectacularly unhelpful. There was nothing about timing, nothing about changes, nothing about coping. Boys and girls alike were briefed in the language of disgust — “gross,” “disgusting,” “blobby”— which, as you might expect, leaves a mental mark on a twelve-year-old. Conversations with my mum were slightly more practical. “You’re fine,” she’d say, “just… check your chair before standing up fully.” This reminder felt like a new life hack nobody asked for: sitting, standing, surviving—suddenly T.O.M. came with a full operations manual. I secretly still believed I could wield telekinesis over my uterus.

By the end of adolescence, I had learned two things: 1) biology is stubborn, and 2) surviving it gracefully requires more planning than a day on a British beach.

From T.O.M to Menopause — Same Delusion, New Chapter

Even now at 48, I sometimes pretend my mind can issue commands to my body, blissfully ignoring the fact that biology rarely reads memos.

Of course, these days the challenge is slightly different. It’s called menopause. And yet, somehow, I still entertain the same delusion. Some habits, apparently, are lifelong.