

I still remember the exact moment when I made the biggest decision of my life. I was in a toilet stall at a Leagues Club in Sydney. It was the third time in 60 minutes that I had raced to the bathroom to change my tampon, the familiar heaviness weighing me down as my brisk walk turned into a jog.
The minute I was in the cubicle, it was clear I was going to need assistance. For what felt like the hundredth time over nearly 10 years, my husband or daughter had to help me out of yet another period mishap. It was embarrassing and I was tired of it.