It was the summer of 2015. I was living in New York City, working in climate policy at the United Nations.

I woke up on the floor of my local bodega, drenched in sweat, being dragged into an ambulance. Two male paramedics hovered over me.

“Are you pregnant?” Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” They kept asking, as though pregnancy is the only form of horrific pain a woman could endure.

I had passed out because of period pain.

Even now, every month, I have days where it feels like barbed wire is tightening inside me. I’ve taken 2,000 milligrams of ibuprofen in 24 hours and still been in tears from the pain. I often end up on the bathroom floor, in the fetal position, crying, moaning, or vomiting.

Still, I’ve put on a blazer and gone to work. I’ve sat in committee hearings nauseous from the excruciating pain, quietly breathing to make my way through it. I’ve given speeches at rallies and run town halls while my body was in full revolt. I smiled for photos while silently wondering if I might faint right then and there. And it’s not just the pain itself, but the........

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