It was the summer of 2015. I was living in New York City, working in climate policy at the United Nations.I woke up on the floor of my local bodega, drenched in sweat, being dragged into an ambulance. Two male paramedics hovered over me.“Are you pregnant?” Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” They kept asking, as though pregnancy is the only form of horrific pain a woman could endure.I had passed out because of period pain.Even now, every month, I have days where it feels like barbed wire is tightening inside me. I’ve taken 2,000 milligrams of ibuprofen in 24 hours and still been in tears from the pain. I often end up on the bathroom floor, in the fetal position, crying, moaning, or vomiting.Still, I’ve put on a blazer and gone to work. I’ve sat in committee hearings nauseous from the excruciating pain, quietly breathing to make my way through it. I’ve given speeches at rallies and run town halls while my body was in full revolt. I smiled for photos while silently wondering if I might faint right then and there. And it’s not just the pain itself, but the severe anxiety that can start more than a week before. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I started researching and reading the very limited studies that exist on this topic: period pain can be as bad as the pain women experience during the second stage of labor, or even a heart attack.This isn’t rare. My childhood best friend and I have been trading horror stories about our periods for years. We are part of the 50% of women who experience period pain and the 15% of women whose period pain is so debilitating that it disrupts work or school.And yet we’re expected to “suck it up.” Across the U.S., millions of women have to choose between working through unbearable pain, losing income they can’t afford to go without, or tapping into a limited number of sick days that then won’t be there if they have the flu or a doctor’s appointment. For low-wage workers, the choices are even more limited, with no work from home or sick leave options. When I woke up on the floor of that bodega in 2015, I was 23-years-old and terrified that asking for time off would hurt my career. But now, I’m a member of Congress with the power to do something about it. I’m introducing legislation to give workers up to 12 days of paid leave a year for reproductive health. It would cover period pain, yes, but also menopause symptoms, IVF, miscarriages, endometriosis flare-ups, and more. And it isn’t just for women—men could leverage the policy to get a vasectomy or fertility treatments. It’s a policy that’s inclusive, smart, and cost-effective. Let’s talk about the costs. Yes, there are costs associated with letting people take the time away from work that they need. But ignoring the issue at hand also comes with costs. In a 2019 study, 14% of women respondents reported absenteeism during menstruation, and 81% reported presenteeism—meaning they were showing up but unable to get work done. Imagine how much more efficient it would be to simply give people the time off they need, so they can work at 100% capacity when they return. And if you’ve experienced the kind of pain that I have, you know that it isn’t just the costs of lost productivity, but also the cost to human dignity.Period pain, endometriosis, and menopause aren’t like getting the flu, where you only feel unwell one or two times a year; they are frequent and recurring. IVF and fertility treatments often last months. Sick leave plans meant for the occasional seasonal cold or annual check-up aren’t designed to cover these circumstances. We need a national reproductive health leave policy. We also need funding for research and to end the silence that has kept women’s pain invisible for too long. That’s why I’m also introducing bills to break down the barriers to gynecological pain management and to study misunderstood and underdiagnosed conditions like Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD).I may be the youngest woman serving in Congress, but this pain is older than me, older than my mother, older than my grandmothers. They endured it in silence. Future generations shouldn’t have to. When we start speaking honestly about this pain, and when we finally pass policies that recognize it, we can change what’s possible for every generation that comes after us.