I’m about to perform at metal festivals and clubs all over Europe, from Wroclaw, Poland, to Lisbon, Portugal. I’ve never toured with a metal band, or toured on a bus through Europe. In fact, I’ve never even been to a metal festival.
A music blog recently described the band as putting on a "rambunctious show that is bursting with rebellious energy and features physical stunts," but you really have to come see us play to get the vibe.
I'm buzzing.
The first few shows of the tour are magical. The music sounds great. I’m having so much fun and learning non-stop. Every show is a different lesson in self-discovery, and I’m loving it.
A few weeks in, my period starts. "Alright, let's go. I'm a big girl. I can do this."
I put in a tampon and don my Leakproof Thong, my last clean pair of undies. (I brought period underwear to sleep in, which I often do when I want to feel extra secure, ESPECIALLY when living on a tour bus with a bunch of other people.)
As the only woman in the band, I take the responsibility for putting on a good show seriously. Representing, bringing my whole self, and expressing myself as I am is what I'm about.
Diversity on stage is not just about representation; it's about bringing a multitude of perspectives and voices to the art. It's a powerful statement about the world we envision: expressive, inclusive, and vital.
Before shows, I always do a little twerkout to get my body ready. I spend a good amount of time picking my afro; and of course, play through some songs and scales on bass to warm up.
It's 8 PM. Stage call. Here comes the adrenaline rush!
I hike up my period underwear and grab my bass. The walk-on music rumbles the stage, and we start playing.
Maybe it's homesickness, missing New York City and all, but since the start of the tour, I've taken up pulling up my thong à la Ice Spice. "She a baddie, she showin her panty." You know? And tonight's show is no exception. I feel like a superhero.
And then, about a minute into the first song, I feel the tampon coming loose.
The situation becomes increasingly precarious with every jump, headbang, and bass riff. (Did I mention our stage clothes are all white?)
I don't want to be thinking about my period right now. I just want to perform.
One of my favorite things about music and being on stage, especially with this band, is there is so much improvisation. We keep the momentum, no matter what distractions or unexpected things happen.
So, I'm giving my all to connect with the crowd and the music—and in the back of my mind wondering, "What do I do?"
I am on the verge of a messy mishap.
But then, I remember my Knix, and shout toward the crew off to the side of the stage, "Grab the trash can!"
The song ends and I run off stage and yank out the tampon (which, by this point, is hardly hanging on by a prayer). And then run back on stage and keep playing.
The crew has no clue what almost happened.
Walking off stage, my body and soul feel incredible.
What could have been a messy, frustrating moment is a quirky and empowering story I can now share with you. It feels good to laugh at myself. Being humbled helps me grow.
Suffice it to say, for the next five days of my cycle, the rest of the tour, and every other time I've been on my period during a performance since, I exclusively wear period underwear. (Which have the added benefit of looking great under clothes and super cute with my outfits.)
I love how I can be confident as a performer in a way that feels authentic to me.
This performance showed me a piece of what makes me special as a musician and person: my ability to adapt and thrive in the face of unexpected challenges.
The things unique to me, like what I wear and my experience in my body, add to my story as a musician and creative. It makes me interesting.
Because, to me, being true to yourself is the highest art form.