Ava Brennan, a Cleveland State University junior studying communications, was halfway through her morning class when she realized she had gotten her period.

It’s a moment that’s not uncommon, especially for commuter students who spend long days on campus without the option to run home. She headed to the first-floor bathroom in Berkman Hall, where a majority of first-year students have class, and where many rely on university-provided resources for everything from meals to mental health care.

Apparently not tampons, though – because when Brennan hit the button on the bathroom’s dispenser, she was met with the hollow click of a barren reservoir. Another click – nothing. She wondered to herself, “Am I about to walk out with a stain on my pants?”

Brennan tried the second floor, and the machine was broken. She trekked up another flight of stairs, bathroom after bathroom, one empty dispenser after the next, looking for a necessity that the university promised would be there for her in a time of need. Instead, she was left with no pad, no tampon – just extra cardio and fear there might be blood dripping down her leg. 

This isn’t necessarily an appealing description, but menstruating people would likely agree that it’s not a very appealing lived reality either. Brennan is just one of many CSU students who have needed period products while on campus and found the supply empty. It’s a problem with real-life consequences: When students don’t have access to period care, they risk missing class, risk feeling self-conscious, or risk their health by resorting to makeshift solutions. 

For Brennan, the machines feel like a false promise. They’re installed, labeled and sometimes actually stocked. But for students who commute, face an unavoidable incident of bad timing, or cannot afford period products on top of the rising costs of existing as a college student, “sometimes” isn’t good enough. 

“I think it should be a priority to keep them stocked,” Brennan said about the dispensers. “People rely on that if they don’t have access themselves. It’s a necessity for sure.”

When access is treated like excess 

On four separate dates across the spring semester, only as many as four dispensers across 22 bathrooms on campus were supplied with both tampons and pads. A few restrooms had either tampons or pads, but 14 out of 22 were completely devoid of menstrual products on the most fully stocked day.

The university said the challenge isn’t due to a lack of handling on CSU’s part. Brandon Dugan, CSU’s director of building maintenance and grounds, said that custodians check the machines on a regular basis. 

“The only downside is that the products are free and people will empty the dispensers of products,” Dugan said. “Our custodial staff is instructed to check these dispensers twice a week to keep up with stocking them.”

This stance shifts the blame from the university’s responsibility to keep up with the demands of necessary resources onto students. And it reduces the issue to students taking more than they need, perpetuating the stigma that menstrual care is an excessive luxury that’s taken advantage of rather than a healthcare necessity.

They’re tampons and pads. Someone might take more than one to prevent uterine lining from ending up on an upholstered lecture hall chair. 

It’s also possible that it’s a cycle. If students don’t know when they’ll next have access to tampons and pads, they might take more. Or, it’s a misunderstanding, the counterpoint to astronaut Sally Ride being sent to space in 1983 with 100 tampons for a six-day mission. 

Menstruating is so stigmatized, so deemed to be shameful, that despite being a bodily function that makes life possible, the half of humanity that doesn't menstruate seems to be completely disconnected from its reality. 

From shortages to makeshift solutions 

An October 2023 national study by Intimina on college students and period poverty found that one in five menstruating college students reported experiencing period poverty, essentially having to choose between buying menstrual products or covering other necessary expenses like groceries and rent.  

For a university whose student body is made up of 40% Pell-eligible students, meaning they typically come from families making less than $40,000 annually, clear and reliable resources for free menstrual care on campus can make the difference in someone having access to a necessity they’re unable to fit into their budget. 

CSU switched to free tampon dispensers in the last decade, but the College of Health still has outdated 25-cent machines that sit vacant across bathrooms on all four floors. A representative from the university said they will eventually be updated to the new, free ones, and custodial staff will be notified to stock and maintain them, but a timeline for when this will happen isn’t clear. 

A custodian who primarily works in the building said that as long as she’s been there, they’ve never been stocked. 

“I’ve been here four years, and we’ve never had them here,” Jennifer, a custodian in the health building, said. 

A group of nursing students who all have their classes in this building said they’re constantly exchanging tampons because they can’t depend on consistent on-campus access – especially when their nursing uniforms are particularly unfriendly to an overflow. 

“We wear white scrubs all the time, so not having (a tampon) is inconvenient,” nursing student Julia Blake said. “If you don’t have one, you’re basically out of luck.“

Another nursing student, Hannah Eickleberry, said that she’s faced the same thing – another empty dispenser, another realization she’s out of luck, and a makeshift solution. 

“Especially when I’d think, ‘Ah, I need a tampon,’ I’d go in there and it’s like ‘Oh – there’s nothing. Okay,’” Eickleberry said. “I guess I just have to do the old roll-up-the-toiletpaper trick.”

Blossomflow, a foundation dedicated to ending period poverty by providing sanitary products and menstrual education, reported in 2024 that especially in low-resource settings or emergencies, menstruating people may resort to using toilet paper as a makeshift solution for period health care. 

The organization reports that using toilet paper as a pad can pose serious health risks. Toilet paper may contain additives or chemicals that irritate the skin, and its fibers can break down, leaving residues in the vaginal canal. This increases risk of bacterial vaginosis or UTIs, both of which have the possibility of leading to more serious complications if left untreated. 

And gaps between supply and demand pose more than a risk to physical well-being. It can be a risk to mental health too, according to a federal brief from the National Center on Safe Supportive Learning Environments. 

The report stated that students’ inability to afford adequate supplies during menstruation puts them at risk for negative emotional and academic consequences, including higher risk of anxiety and depression. 

The same source notes that support requires a consistent and secure supply – two things CSU’s menstrual care system does not provide. 

Cuts to services, and the consequences

The Mareyjoyce Green Women’s Center used to be one of the few places on campus where students could reliably access period products. According to a source in the administration, CSU closed the center in September 2025 after CSU’s chapter of the conservative student organization Turning Point USA flagged it for review. Turning Point's actions followed Ohio's implementation of SB-1, a newly signed state law that bans diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives in public universities. 

After the women’s center’s closure, along with the closure of the Office of Inclusion and Multicultural Engagement and the LGBTQ+ center, Cleveland State launched the Student Resource Center in Berkman Hall 271, with the intention to provide a one-stop shop for all students to get access to the resources that they need. 

The Student Resource Center promises students access to period care. After one visit, it seems like the pads and tampons stay relatively stocked, along with other resources like contraceptives and fentanyl test strips. But according to staff, students don’t use the products because they don’t know the resource exists. 

“This resource is like a hidden gem, basically. I just wish more people knew about it,” Amara Jackson, a Student Resource Center employee said. “Most people just really don’t know, but I guess this is the best we can do.”

Students depend on being made aware of the resources available to them, especially when resources they once depended on were taken away. They rely on consistency so that they can trust that the support their campus promises to provide is actually there in a time of need. It’s more than a gap in necessary provisions, it’s a trust issue. 

Menstruation isn’t optional. It’s not something that strictly occurs in the privacy of one's home, outside of the hours of work, school and life that keeps moving whether bleeding or not. Students spend long days on campus, often speeding from one class to the next. 

The university said students drain the resource, but even if that’s the case, students shouldn't have to hoard menstrual care to ensure reliable access to what they need. The university made a promise. It should keep it. 

Where you might find a tampon

If you do find yourself looking for a tampon or pad while on campus, the Michael Schwartz Library and Student Resource Center should have free products available – assuming they’re stocked, and assuming you have time to get there, passing bathroom after bathroom along the way. 

Just hope you’re not in white scrubs like Blake, or in the middle of class like Brennan. Because in a moment of urgency, all you might find is an empty machine. 

College students aren’t looking for promises written in policy. They’re looking for tangible resources they can count on and support that helps them avoid putting their physical, mental and educational well-being in jeopardy. They’re looking for a tampon – and met with blame for needing what the university said would be available.