Speaking from a Texas prison, journalist Kwaneta Harris reveals how menopause is neglected and punished for those living under state control.
Menopause—and the conversations surrounding it—is having a moment: Celebrities are speaking out, a commercial marketplace is booming, and state legislatures have introduced a wave of reforms over the past year. But as public attention grows, so too must our scrutiny of who benefits from this surge of visibility … and who risks being left behind.
This essay is part of the latest Women & Democracy installment, Flipping the Menopause Script Is Essential to Democracy, published in the middle of Black History Month, in partnership with Black Girls’ Guide to Surviving Menopause. This series helps flip the script, building on seven years of narrative and reproductive justice work led by Black Girls’ Guide to Surviving Menopause and commemorates “Iranti Ẹ̀jẹ̀: Remembering Blood,” a 2025 intergenerational gathering in Durham, N.C., centering marginalized menopausal communities. Menopause is not only a physical transition—it is also cultural, social and political. Recognizing its full scope is essential to advancing true health and civic equity. As one contributor reminds us: “We will not disappear with age. We will arrive.”
Editors’ note: The following piece is presented as a transcript from a conversation recorded for BGG2SM’s October 2025 convening, Iranti Ẹ̀jẹ̀: Remembering Blood. Journalist Kwaneta Harris, who is currently incarcerated in Texas, was unable to attend the gathering in person. Her story was recorded in conversation with Julian Wilson, director of research and narrative strategy for Iranti Ẹ̀jẹ̀. At the event, her words were read aloud by Colette Payne—a formerly incarcerated advocate with the Women’s Justice Institute—serving as Harris’ proxy so her testimony could be shared in full.
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Good evening, family. My name is Kwaneta Harris, and I’m speaking to you from inside these walls, where I’ve been documenting stories that need to be heard. You know what menopause looks like for most folks? Maybe some hot flashes at work, some joint pain and mood swings. Perhaps you adjust your thermostat frequently or get hormone therapy from your doctor.
Now let me tell you what menopause looks like under state control. Imagine having a hot flash in a non air-conditioned cell with a recorded temperature of 119 degrees. The guards won’t let you have ice water. You’re bleeding through your state-issued white uniform because you had to beg an 18-year-old man-child for a pad this morning, and he said, “Maybe later.” You get exactly five tampons a month, along with a handful of pads, if you’re lucky. Your hormones are all over the place, but there’s no hormone replacement therapy. Just Tylenol—if the guards remember.
And here’s the kicker: They write you up for having an “attitude problem” when you’re actually having hormone-induced mood swings from perimenopause. Those write-ups? They keep you from getting parole. So now you’re not just dealing with your biology changing, you’re trapped here longer because your biology is being criminalized.
… How can you truly understand the scope of this crisis if you’re not hearing from those of us experiencing it under the worst possible conditions?
The carceral system wasn’t built for people going through menopause. It was built to contain and control, not to care and nurture. So when our bodies demand something different, when we need real medical attention and basic human compassion during one of the most vulnerable transitions in our lives, this system fails us completely. A system where asking for a menopause-related accommodation is seen as asking for special treatment, where our pain is always suspicious, always exaggerated, always somehow our own fault.
The times I did see medical providers, I encountered what I can only describe as vaginaphobia. These doctors cannot hide their discomfort with bodies experiencing perimenopause. I’ve watched people in here have complete breakdowns because nobody—not the guards, not the medical staff, not even sometimes their own families—understands that what they’re going through is real, is medical, is serious.
The guards control our water temperature in the showers. Often it is scalding hot. And they wonder why we’re irritated. They deny us cold drinking water, then punish us for sweating.
What is happening to us is a reflection of how society treats menopause everywhere, just magnified and intensified. But the dismissal, the shame, the lack of real healthcare—it is all the same.
So when I talk about solidarity, I’m not talking about thoughts and prayers. Real solidarity means action. It means demanding air conditioning in these ovens they call prisons. It means advocating for policy changes that require proper menopause-informed care in all prisons. It means demanding we can’t be forced to work unpaid in triple-digit heat picking cotton and other crops during this transition. It means demanding that prisons stock adequate menstrual and menopausal products and that they’re freely accessible without having to beg.
But most importantly, it means including incarcerated voices in every conversation about menopause justice. Because how can you truly understand the scope of this crisis if you’re not hearing from those of us experiencing it under the worst possible conditions? We need you to support organizations that are fighting for our healthcare rights. We need donations of menstrual products. We need you to write letters, make phone calls, show up to legislative hearings and never let them forget we exist.
I’ve kept my voice by understanding that my struggles aren’t individual failures. When I speak up about needing basic healthcare, I’m not just advocating for myself. I’m fighting for every person going through this passage—just as when you advocate for us, you’re advocating for everyone who’s being ignored by the system.
So I’m asking you to move beyond sympathy. Start getting angry about the conditions we’re forced to endure. Make noise until they can’t ignore us anymore.
When we’re free to experience menopause with dignity and support, regardless of where we are, that’s when we’ll know we’ve built a world that truly honors the full spectrum of human experience. Will you stand with us?
