Stranger in the stall!

Some might say my bathroom is forgettable. Chipped checkerboard tiles meet an off-white wainscoted wall abruptly and without composure. It has cracks, stains, and faint smells of the last tenant’s cigarettes. Some might notice the hole in the ceiling where the fan used to be, and the newer hole next to it. Stodgy, they might say.

But for me, my bathroom is my safe space. In my otherwise unpredictable life as a wheelchair user, it is my guardian—constant, consistent, devoid of barriers. It’s there for me when I most need it. Beyond its two-inch white cased door lies a world of unequal negotiations: a broken record reverberating doors too narrow, sinks too high, stranger in the stall, and strangers who stare.

Just past its peel-and-stick veneer vanity is a daily routine of required calculations: Where is the nearest accessible stall? Will the handle lock? Can I get in? Can I get there on time? In that uncertainty, my own bathroom becomes something larger than its off-white, wainscoted walls. Maybe it’s my friend that listens, an ally, a partner in crime—a space systematically curated not to test my limits, but to affirm them.

Some might say my bathroom is forgettable, but for me, it is my most cherished space.