I had the period talk with my dad when I was 11. It wasn't who I expected to teach me about puberty.

• I had my first period at 11 years old, stuffed toilet paper in my undies, and hoped for the best.
• I hadn't had the period talk with my mom, so my dad took over and talked to me about puberty.

"Mija, we need to talk," my dad said while we drove home from the store one evening.

By the age of 11, I was used to big talks in the car — just me and him. I knew something awkward was coming, but I tried not to look bothered. We weren't far from home. So whatever it was, surely it couldn't take that long to discuss.

Words such as "periods," "cramps," "puberty," and "menstrual products" came up. I stared out the window of our white Toyota pickup, taking in the views of the agricultural fields and mountains that surrounded us.

I couldn't believe I was having this talk — and with my dad of all people. I come from a family where things like periods aren't discussed. I think my mom, doing the best she knew how, thought we'd just have to figure it out ourselves. So the fact that I was having this conversation with anyone was mortifying.

Over two decades later, I still remember that drive home, but the memory of the actual conversation is vague. I messaged my dad to ask if we could talk, hoping that together we could remember it all.

While we couldn't remember exactly what was said, we both agreed we'd never forget having that conversation. My dad wanted to protect me, and I'm grateful to have a father so open to talking about it all. It doesn't matter which parent has the period talk. The important thing is that the child is lovingly educated and supported through the process.

When I got my period, I was clueless

I started my period in the fifth grade, sometime around my 11th birthday. Everything I knew about puberty came from television, conversations on the playground, and eavesdropping on my older sister and cousins.

Despite knowing about periods from a young age, I was completely unprepared when I got mine. Not knowing what else to do, I put toilet paper in my underwear and prayed that nothing embarrassing would happen at school or during basketball practice. On those first few nights, I cried alone in my room.

I knew I couldn't sustain the "toilet paper in my underwear" method for much longer, and one night, while my mom tucked me into bed, I started to sob. I told her that I had started my period, and she guided me to her bathroom to show me where she kept the pads.

She explained the adhesive-wing situation, that I should wrap a used pad in toilet paper and throw it away, and that I had to change them a few times a day. I could get them whenever I needed, she said.

I remember the feeling of shame, relief, and panic as there was still so much I didn't know.

My dad decided to step in

"I've been trying to remember what happened, or how the discussion came about," my dad told me recently. "But I remember when I found out you were going through some stuff, I was really pissed. I was angry."

Instead of learning what exactly we discussed, I discovered more about the context in which the conversation came about.

It turned out that through some parental miscommunication, my dad thought I'd already received a talk from my mom before starting my period. When he found out I hadn't had the full explanation about puberty and how my body was changing, he knew he'd have to be the one to do it.

"I couldn't believe that you had to go through some of this alone. It bothered me," he said. "You should have been prepared. Someone should have told you."

At some point in the following days or weeks, my dad loaded me into the car under the guise of running errands, and we had our talk.

"I did the best I could to not shy away from the topic and just say everything I could remember, everything I know about it," he recalled.

Though the 11-year-old me was completely mortified, the adult me now understands how much these conversations meant to my dad. I realized how lucky I was to have a dad who would do that for me.

"Even though I don't remember the exact things we talked about," he told me, "it's something that I'll probably never forget."

Neither would I, I told him.