Threshold

Dear readers, in today’s post, I share memories of the day I crossed from childhood into womanhood and how it turned my world upside down.

Stepping over the familiar threshold of my home, an unfamiliar tightness gripped my chest. The weight of my schoolbag felt more pronounced, each step towards the bathroom more urgent. There, in the glaring honesty of afternoon sunlight, a vivid red stain defied the innocence of white cotton. This was my secret to keep, yet I found myself whispering my mother's name, Evangelia, a silent plea for her calm in the midst of my storm.

My beloved mother sprang into action, her hands sure and quick as she fashioned a makeshift pad from cotton and toilet paper, her voice a soft river of assurances that this secret was ours alone.

But Evangelia’s promise crumbled when, later, the knowing glances and sweetened congratulations of my aunt and uncle downstairs betrayed the illusion of privacy.

The next morning, as I walked to school, every step felt heavy with the certainty that everyone could see the change beneath my uniform. In Mr. Chung's grade 5 class, I faced the daunting task of beginning my speech with a joke. "What do you call a cow in water? Beef stew," I announced, prompting a chorus of giggles from classmates I felt disconnected from.

Standing there on the riser, I chose to focus on my black shoes, delivering words that would soon fade from memory. The joke anchored me. I played a part I didn't recognize, thrust into a spotlight, in a story, I hadn't picked.

That evening in the quiet of my small bedroom, the stories of woman saints weighed heavily on me. Saint Glykeria, defying her persecutors, endured her hand being seared on the altar she honoured. Saint Barbara, walled in by her own father, faced a brutal death rather than renounce her faith. Their tales were not just of faith but of a peril that seemed inherent to their womanhood—a peril that now felt all too real.

I didn't chase the saints' courage. Their tales, brave yet stained by violence, were a history I wanted to avoid. Their sacrifices revealed a world where being a woman was fraught with danger, and where celebrations were rare exceptions. It was a dichotomy that left me feeling adrift, caught between the proud congratulations of my family and the visceral fear of a path marked by trials and tribulations.

These saintly women had endured tough lives, and their struggles were more than warnings; they were part of a larger, timeless battle. Standing at the start of my own path into womanhood, I wondered if I faced the same risks.

Would my own turning point be shadowed by danger?

Did my blood signal a future as troubled as the past of these women who went before me?

My family's joy seemed remote as I mulled over these thoughts. The treats and proud smiles didn't quite hit home. They were marking a coming-of-age that to me, rang more like a warning bell.