Three years ago, I was that smug dad at a PTA meeting talking about how our family had gotten so good at reducing waste. We’d cut our household trash by like 70% through composting, buying in bulk, switching to reusables, the whole nine yards. I’m explaining our system to a group of parents when this mom – Sarah, I think her name was – raises her hand and goes, “That’s great for your family, but what about period products? Those create tons of waste too.”
Crickets. Complete silence from me.
I mean, obviously I knew my wife used tampons and pads. I’d bought them at the store plenty of times, complained about how expensive they were, noticed all the plastic packaging in our bathroom trash. But somehow in all my research about household waste reduction, I’d completely ignored this massive category of disposable products that half the population uses every single month.
That night I went down a research rabbit hole that honestly made me feel pretty stupid for missing something so obvious. The numbers are absolutely staggering – the average person who menstruates will use somewhere between 5,000 to 15,000 period products in their lifetime. My wife’s probably already used thousands of tampons and pads since we got married, all of which went straight to landfill after a few hours of use.
And it’s not just the volume. These things are loaded with plastic. Regular pads can be up to 90% plastic – the backing, the wings, the top layer, all plastic. Even tampons have plastic applicators and synthetic strings most of the time. Plus everything comes individually wrapped in more plastic, then the whole box is wrapped in plastic. It’s like the industry tried to use as much plastic as possible.
My wife thought I’d lost my mind when I started asking her about sustainable period products. “Are you seriously mansplaining periods to me now?” she said, which, fair point. But I explained that I was trying to figure out if there were better options from an environmental perspective, and would she be willing to try some alternatives if I did the research first.
She agreed, mostly I think because she was curious about the money aspect. We were probably spending $60-80 a year on tampons and pads, which doesn’t sound like much until you multiply it by 30+ years. That’s over $2,000 just on products that get thrown away immediately after use.
I started with menstrual cups because they seemed like the most dramatic waste reduction – one silicone cup that lasts up to 10 years, replacing literally thousands of disposable tampons. Bought one online and presented it to my wife like I’d solved all our problems.
She tried it exactly once and handed it back to me. “Nope. Not happening.” Apparently there’s a pretty steep learning curve with insertion and removal, and she wasn’t interested in spending multiple cycles figuring it out. I didn’t push it – seemed like the kind of thing where personal comfort should definitely trump environmental benefits.
Next attempt was cloth pads. These seemed less intimidating – they work basically the same as disposable pads but you wash them instead of throwing them away. Found a company in North Carolina (supporting local business, bonus points) that makes them with organic cotton and cute patterns.
This was more successful. My wife liked that they were softer than disposable pads and didn’t have that plasticky feel. The washing wasn’t as gross as either of us expected – you rinse them in cold water first, then throw them in with regular laundry. After using them for about six months, she said they were definitely more comfortable than disposables and she liked knowing exactly what materials were touching her body.
The environmental math was pretty compelling too. Each cloth pad replaces dozens of disposable ones over its lifespan. Yes, there’s water and energy used for washing, but multiple studies show that’s still way less environmental impact than manufacturing and disposing of the equivalent number of disposables.
But the real game-changer was period underwear. I’ll be honest, I was skeptical when I first heard about these. How could regular-looking underwear possibly work for periods without leaking everywhere? Seemed too good to be true.
My wife was willing to try them because they required the least behavior change – you just wear them like normal underwear, then wash them afterward. We ordered a few pairs from a company that had good reviews, and I prepared myself for complaints about leaks and discomfort.
Instead, she became completely obsessed with them. “Where have these been my entire adult life?” she kept saying. They worked perfectly, were super comfortable, and she could barely tell she was wearing period products at all. Within a few months, she’d replaced most of her disposable product use with period underwear.
From my perspective, watching our bathroom trash can go from overflowing with period product waste every month to basically nothing was pretty amazing. One small change that eliminated a huge source of plastic waste from our household.
The cost analysis was interesting too. Period underwear has the highest upfront cost – we spent about $150 building a complete set that gets her through her whole cycle. But they’re supposed to last 2-3 years, maybe longer with good care. Compared to continuing to buy disposables, we’ll save probably $400-500 over the life of the underwear.
I started writing about this experience on the blog because I figured other families were probably overlooking period product waste the same way I had. Got a lot of responses from moms who’d never considered the environmental impact, and several who tried sustainable options after reading about our experiment.
One thing I learned is that there’s no universal solution here. My wife loves period underwear but still uses cloth pads sometimes for backup or heavier days. Some women in my blog community swear by menstrual cups once they get past the learning curve. Others prefer cloth pads because they like being able to see what’s happening with their cycle.
The key seems to be trying different options until you find what works for your body and lifestyle. Most companies have pretty good return policies if something doesn’t work out.
There are some legitimate barriers to switching that I try to be honest about in my writing. The upfront costs can be prohibitive for families already struggling financially. If you don’t have reliable access to laundry facilities, reusable products become much more challenging. Some people have physical conditions that make certain products difficult or impossible to use.
But for families like ours – middle-class suburban households with washing machines and disposable income – there’s really no excuse for continuing to generate massive amounts of period product waste every month when effective alternatives exist.
The other benefit I didn’t expect was how this opened up conversations about periods in our house. My daughter’s only seven, but she’s already curious about why mommy has special underwear that looks different from regular underwear. It’s led to age-appropriate discussions about how bodies work and change, without the shame or secrecy that surrounded periods when I was growing up.
I want my daughter to grow up knowing she has options beyond just accepting whatever disposable products are marketed to her. That periods don’t have to generate bags of plastic waste every month. That she can make choices aligned with her values about environmental impact and what she puts in or on her body.
Three years later, my wife hasn’t bought a single box of disposable period products. She’s probably prevented several thousand tampons and pads from going to landfill, saved us hundreds of dollars, and says she’s more comfortable during her period than she’s been since she started menstruating.
That embarrassing moment at the PTA meeting ended up leading to one of the most impactful changes our family’s made. Sometimes the biggest blind spots in our sustainability efforts are hiding in plain sight – we just need someone to point them out and the willingness to admit we missed something important.
