I didn’t expect a simple NGO visit to change the way I see awareness. But it did.
One of the most unforgettable days was when I visited a girls’ orphanage for HIV-positive children. I still remember walking in with a certain heaviness, maybe shaped by what we are conditioned to feel when we hear words like "HIV" or "orphanage." But the moment I entered, I was met with something completely unexpected: smiles, pure, unfiltered smiles.
The girls greeted us with such warmth and energy that for a moment, I forgot everything I thought I knew. If you saw them laughing, talking, and dreaming, you wouldn’t believe the label society had placed on them. Their eyes were full of ambition. One wanted to be a doctor, another a teacher; someone else spoke about dancing on big stages. What stayed with me was their confidence. It wasn’t loud, but it was steady and real.
They lived like a family. The older girls took care of the younger ones, helped them with homework, and managed daily chores together. There was a sense of responsibility and belonging that felt rare and beautiful.
And then we started talking about menstruation. That’s when everything shifted. The same girls who were just confidently sharing their dreams slowly started leaving the room. One by one. Quietly. Almost as if someone had switched off a light.
We had to call them back, sit them down, and gently tell them, “It’s normal. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” They listened inattentively. But the next time we visited, the same thing happened again. The same hesitation. The same silence. It made me wonder how girls can be so aware in every other way still feel uncomfortable about something so natural.
A few days later, we visited a slum area for a menstruation and health awareness drive. This time, I was prepared to teach.
We went from house to house, ready to explain that menstruation is not taboo. But before we could even begin, many women told us, “We already talk about it openly.” I was taken aback. When we distributed sanitary pads, they didn’t hide them. They didn’t whisper. They accepted them as if it were just another normal part of life. And this scene is of a slum. A space we often assume lacks awareness.
It made me pause. Maybe it was because NGOs had been visiting regularly. Maybe it was because there wasn’t enough privacy to “hide” these things. Or maybe, just maybe, they had already crossed a barrier that many others hadn’t.
Then came the visit to an all-girls government school. We spoke about various topics, including menstruation. Some girls listened attentively; some seemed disinterested. When we asked if they had any doubts, no one spoke. Silence again. So we gave them another option to come and talk to us privately after the session. They did come. A few girls walked up to us later, hesitant but curious. Their questions were simple, real, and important. That moment stayed with me not because it was big, but because it was honest.
It reminded me that sometimes change doesn’t come in loud voices. It comes in small, quiet steps.
And then came the most unexpected realization. I always believed that education brings openness. That awareness naturally follows literacy. But in many homes we observed, almost 60% menstruation was still surrounded by restrictions.
“Don’t go into the kitchen.”
“Don’t touch certain things.”
“Wrap the pad in black polythene.”
These weren’t just instructions. They were traditions passed down without question. And suddenly, everything I had seen started connecting.
According to the National Family Health Survey (NFHS-5), around 77% of young women in India now use hygienic methods during menstruation. Awareness campaigns, government schemes, and NGOs have made a real difference.
But numbers don’t tell the whole story. Because even with access and education, stigma still exists in conversations we avoid, in rules we follow without asking why. What I learned from these experiences is something I didn’t expect:
Awareness doesn’t always come from education.
Confidence doesn’t always come from privilege.
And openness doesn’t always exist where we assume it should.
The orphanage taught me strength but also silence.
The slum taught me openness where I expected hesitation.
The school showed me that even one small step matters.
If there’s one thing I’m taking back from all of this, it’s that sometimes, the people we think need awareness are already ahead of us. And sometimes, the ones we think are aware are still holding on to silence. Maybe real change doesn’t start with speaking. Maybe it starts with listening.
Looking back, these experiences reshaped my definition of awareness. It is not merely about education or access to information but about comfort, openness, and the courage to question norms. The contrasts I witnessed taught me that change does not always arrive loudly. It often unfolds quietly, in conversations, in small acts of acceptance, and in moments of honesty. Perhaps true awareness begins not with teaching others, but with listening, observing, and being willing to rethink what we think we already know.
