“You didn’t hold my hand, but you had my back.“
– Elizabeth Melissa Heloise (Bella) messaged me after she and her classmates accidentally turned the school lab into a mini fireworks show during their science project last month.
CALL it whatever you want – growing up, coming of age, a rite of passage.
But one thing is certain: it’s inevitable.
You can push it aside, and pretend it’s years away, but that won’t stop it from coming.
You can prepare all you want – read up, have a plan – but the moment always arrives unannounced.
No matter how ready you think you are, a part of you will still hope – maybe even pray – that she’s with her mother when it happens.
Yet life rarely grants us the easy way out.
So there I was, trying to play it cool, when my editorial brain kicked in.
It did what it knows best: it spun up a headline.
“Father rushes daughter to urgent care over cramps.”
A small comfort, I suppose – naming the chaos made it feel a little less chaotic.
Because that’s precisely what happened.
At first, I thought it was just another stomachache.
She’d had plenty before – usually after binging on junk food like she was testing the outer limits of her digestive system.
But this time felt different.
It was early Saturday morning.
She lay flat on the sofa, tears streaking down her cheeks.
This wasn’t the usual whine.
This was pain. Real pain.
And for the first time, she needed me in a way she never had.
I scooped her up – 36 kilogrammes of her – and carried her to the car, then straight to urgent care.
Within minutes, we were at the hospital.
Doctor Kelly wasted no time – pain meds first, then straight to urinalysis and an X-ray.
When the results came back, she ordered blood work just to be sure – but her voice softened as she said it was just severe cramps.
A young girl is on the verge of starting menstruation.
After Kelly left the room, Bella, eyes still glassy with tears, looked up at me.
“Didi,” she said, making a circular motion above her pelvis, “Is she going to check any of my business down here?”
I crouched beside her, brushing back a stray strand of hair.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“But she’s Mami’s friend. She’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re okay.
“Sometimes, we just have to let her get all up in your business. Trust me – she’s seen worse.”
Bella let out a short laugh, then winced and doubled over.
“Ow,” she groaned. “Laughing hurts.”
I must’ve sounded too much like an analyst explaining risk to a client – calm, methodical, annoyingly precise – because just as she was about to call me out, Hayek – my 10-year-old, usually the quiet one – decided it was his moment.
“Well, my tummy hurt one time really bad, but I didn’t cry.”
We all turned to look at him.
Then we laughed – me, Bella, even the nurse walking past.
The little turd.
After a quick needle poke and a few vials of blood, we were finally discharged.
The drive home felt quieter than usual.
Maybe it was the weight of the morning in Kelly’s room.
Maybe we were both just lost in our thoughts.
Then, as if on cue, she started talking.
Not shyly. Not testing the waters.
Openly. Candidly.
It was the kind of conversation I’d always hoped we’d have – honest, unguarded, with just a hint of maternal warmth sneaking through her voice.
Some fathers might cringe at these moments, unsure what to say or where to look.
But deep down, I was celebrating.
This was the breakthrough I’d been waiting for.
Not the part where she got her period – God, no.
If I could, I’d press pause on time and keep her little forever.
It was the moment my fear faded, replaced by something steadier.
Confidence.
The sense that we could talk – really talk – without walls.
All those times I said, “You can tell me anything”… it was finally happening, right there, in real-time.
Later that night, I peeked into her room.
She lay curled up on her side, her face half-buried in the pillow.
“Is the cramping any better?” I asked gently.
She gave a soft hum.
“A little.”
“Do we need to go get some tampons?” I kept my voice light, careful.
Her eyes flickered open, lighting up with a sudden burst of excitement.
“Yes! Mami told me what brand to get!”
I nodded, offered a quick smile and stepped back into the hallway.
In the dim glow of the living room, I stood still – rubbing the back of my neck.
A thought – equal parts ridiculous and terrifying – slipped in before I could stop it: Should I Google ‘world’s smallest tampon’?
A second, even more unsettling thought followed: I might have to show her how to use it.
I swallowed hard, my throat dried.
My mind raced through a dozen scenarios, each more awkward than the last.
Parenting has always been a journey of trial and error, a shared adventure in figuring things out together, regardless of how unpredictable and wildly uncomfortable.
But this … this was something else.
Then, out of nowhere, an epiphany struck.
I marched back to her room, and paused at the doorway, trying to piece together the right words.
“Eh, why don’t we start with pads first?” I suggested, tilting my phone to show her the picture.
“I don’t think you’d want to be sticking anything up there yet. I could be wrong, but maybe check with Mami?”
“Okay,” she said, and without delay, called Mami – only to be met with voicemail.
A few minutes later, as we drove out to grab a bite, her phone buzzed.
Mami was calling back.
I only caught a snippet of Bella’s response:
“That’s exactly what Didi said.”
A surge of triumph shot through me – like I’d just won the 16th Champions League.
I wanted to throw my fists in the air and yell, Vamos!
By the time she hung up, we were already making a detour to Nishino Pharmacy.
I couldn’t resist teasing her.
“Got any money for your purchase?” I asked, slipping her a $20.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
I half-expected her to say yes.
She rolled her eyes.
“Nah, I got this, Didi.”
That weekend held more meaning than I could’ve anticipated.
Watching my 13-year-old step into womanhood was both surreal and overwhelming.
It seems like only yesterday she was standing on a stool in front of the toilet, declaring with all the confidence in the world, “I want to pee like you.”
Time moves quickly when we’re not paying attention, slipping through our fingers until suddenly – everything’s changed.
Now, she’s crossing another milestone.
And I’m just grateful I got to be there for it.
By noon, we’d be heading in different directions – Bella and Hayek catching a direct flight back to the States, while I returned to Kuching.
The separation never gets easier.
Still, there’s comfort in knowing that while she won’t tell me everything, she always can.
More than anything, I admire the quiet, effortless confidence she carries – just like her mother.
In my mind, that’s one of the most beautiful things a woman can have.
Not the kind of confidence that snaps fingers in a Z-shape or strikes a pose.
It should be the one that leaves no room for shame or embarrassment.
The best part is that she allowed me to share this story with you.
I wouldn’t have written it otherwise.
That, right there – that’s the greatest measure of self-confidence I’ve seen in her.
Period.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at med.akilis@gmail.com
