The Invisible Boundary Vol. 23 — WordsByEkta🌿

🌱 The Seed Series // Vol. 23

The Invisible Boundary

My mother bathed every morning before her temple visit, the cool water washing away yesterday's sins — or so she believed. During those days when my body bled quietly, a secret shame settled over the house like an unspoken curse. I was not allowed to touch her — not until she returned from temple and her morning prayers were done.

If our skin brushed accidentally, she would vanish into the bathroom and bathe again, scrubbing until the invisible stain was gone.

Excluded without a word spoken. The door always just slightly closed. (Image via WordsByEkta🌿)

The kitchen was a no-man's land. If the maid who cleaned the dishes was menstruating, my mother would wash every plate and spoon again, as if the water itself could erase impurity.

I was twelve when I first understood that my blood marked me. Not with words, but with silence — the way her eyes flickered away when I came too close, the sudden coldness in her touch, the way the house seemed to contract around me.

There was no room for questions. No space for anger or confusion. Just the invisible boundary that separated us, carved by ancient fears and modern shame.

I learned to step lightly, to hold my breath, to make myself small. Menstruation was a time of exile, not just from the temple or the kitchen, but from the woman who was supposed to be my closest ally.

"Years later, I catch myself washing dishes twice, scrubbing harder than necessary, convinced that I'm still carrying that old stain — the one no ritual can wash away."

When I see my own daughter's first period approaching, I want to tell her the truth: That her blood is not a curse. That no water or prayer can change her worth. That the boundaries others build are not hers to carry.

But the silence is thick. The weight of those invisible walls lingers in my voice, in my hesitation, in the way I still hesitate to cross the kitchen threshold during her time.

I don't know if I'll ever fully tear down the walls my mother built with fear and love — walls made of silence, water, and unspoken rules.

But maybe telling this story is the first step.

The first crack in the glass that shatters the old, and lets in light.

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✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud

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