How Using a Menstrual Cup Reconnected Me with My Body and Period as a Non-Binary Person

By Sofía Aguilar

I’ve been getting my period since I was fourteen and though I’m twenty-four now, there are still months that it feels like a mystery to me. Part of it is familial – my mother didn’t warn me about getting my period, or tell me that if I got stains, I had to wash it out immediately before it turned brown and permanent. Another part of it is cultural. I live in America, whose mainstream society not only refuses to depict periods in a healthy way in media but also didn’t explain reproductive health well enough in my high school health classes. Everything they taught me about my body felt wrong and too taboo to talk about. I was afraid of how it seemed to be developing and changing without my permission.

I didn’t relate to my body the way other girls did. While others seemed comfortable in their skin, mine felt strange and foreign and wrong. I hated my breasts and hips, wanting to cut or fill them out because they just didn’t feel like they had anything to do with me. Like I’d be the same person, or better, without them. As a result, I went through various phases of fashion styles and fights with my appearance that both validated and rejected my feminine side.

I wondered if I would find a gender expression that felt true to who I was. I didn’t yet have the language to wrestle with myself, to explain that sometimes I felt like a woman, and other times I heard the word directed at me and physically cringed, wanting to tear the word off of me. I realise now, of course, that I am a demigirl and that my body and the things it does, like periods, are only part of who I am. As we know, many people can have periods, get pregnant and give birth, regardless of gender identity. 

For the past ten years, I’ve accepted periods as a part of my life. I kept track of it in my calendar and was happy to pop a pad in without a second thought, cooling the cramps when they came. But things began to change when I began dating my partner, who is passionate about the environment and has gotten me hooked on everything from composting to sustainable products. I realised that not only was I spending an absurd amount of money on pads but also accruing a lot of unnecessary paper waste. I decided to buy a period cup, which has become popular for its one-time cost and ability to be washed and reused every month.

I’ll be honest: using it for the first time was incredibly difficult and embarrassing. Even after repeatedly reading the instructions, it took me at least ten tries of sitting, squatting, lying back on the floor, pinching and folding to figure out a comfortable way to get it in. By the end of it, I was sweating. It didn’t help that my vaginal canal is very small or that I didn’t know where it was despite being sexually active for over a year and, you know, having one my whole life. It was both humiliating and hilarious, especially when I had this sudden fear of getting it stuck inside me and shoved my fingers up there in a panic, before learning that all I had to do was squeeze it out.

I also woke up to the fact that even if periods didn’t align with my identity, I had to get over this fear I had of my own body, that understanding it was in itself a form of care and concern for my health. How else would I know if it was working or if something was wrong? How else would I know how to care for my partner, too? It’s not just my sexual health that is worth taking care of but also that of the person who loves me.

Using my period cup for the past five months has forced me to touch myself more than I ever have. Three times a day during my cycle, I push and pull it out of myself, empty it and wash it clean. Sometimes my period blood gets on my fingers. Sometimes I’m still afraid it’ll get stuck. Sometimes I hate having to squat over the toilet to take it out, especially in public or in someone else’s house. Sometimes I think it would be easier to go back to what I was doing before when I didn’t have to acknowledge my body at all. 

I’ve come to know my body in a way that the health industry never gave me permission to. For people with bodies like mine, our health continues to be a mystery in medicine and an example of fierce societal inequality. Our complaints aren’t taken seriously, we aren’t taught about our own anatomy, and we aren’t given the space to learn and ask questions. We aren’t given the autonomy to look after our own reproductive health and must pay for resources that should otherwise be free. We aren’t told the truth.

Thanks to my period cup, I’ve started to see my body in a different light. I might not be all that attached to it but I’m grateful for how it’s served me and how it will continue to change as I do. My body is beautiful. It’s mine and it’s worth loving.