I am a firm believer in the safety of bathroom floors.

Perhaps it’s the vulnerability of it. It is not often in a moment of pride and triumph that you find yourself curled next to the toilet. When I was a kid, there were three key rooms in the upstairs hallway of my house: my bedroom, my parents’ bedroom, and the bathroom. It was customary for me to wake up in the middle of the night, stop by my parents room to inform them I didn’t feel good, and then run down the length of the bathroom to throw up. I have many hazy memories of my mom patiently sitting next to me in that long, narrow bathroom and taking care of me as I puked.

I once made the mistake of attending a twelve-hour day full of Harry Potter events. For those of you reading this, it probably sounds like either the best or worst possible event you can imagine. A friend from out of town was in, it was the night of daylight savings, and a few of my friends got entirely swept away with hours of team challenges to compete for the house cup. Although I enjoyed me and my fellow Ravenclaws thorough slaughtering of the other teams in trivia, the real danger was twelve uninterrupted hours with someone I had recently ended a three-year relationship with. As I slipped deeper and deeper into exhaustion, the unresolved emotions began to take over. 

At around 2:30 AM, right in the middle of the Half-Blood Prince movie, I slipped out of the room to cry on the bathroom floor. I was comforted by its solid there-ness. And just as the ground held me steady, one of closest friends came to check on me. Something about the wee hours of the morning, being supported by the solid tile and the emotional support of one of your best friends—there couldn’t be anything safer in the world.

I have mentally converted the tiny bathroom in my tiny apartment to my safe room. When the anxiety overwhelms, I drag a blanket and pillow into the bathroom, prop them against the comforting warmth of the radiator, and curl up on the floor. Hoo-wee, that solid floor gets me every time.

I think it works for the following reasons:

1. Solid things are infinitely more comforting than soft things. Solid things are predictable, dependable, and supportive. Everything your mom could want in your future spouse, the tile floor has it too.
2. Bathrooms are a socially acceptable escape. You couldn’t very well get away with retreating to a corner of the room and curling up. You would meet with unwanted stares, unpredictable passerby, and likely an unwieldy end table or two. Yet no one questions the retreat to the bathroom.
3. It is a room unburdened by presumption or dignity. There are no social codes to live up to, no expectation to maintain any shred of dignity. The privacy of the bathroom allows for raw emotion to roam free. The most unpredictable aspects are the flamboyance of the shower curtain and the scent of the hand soap.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the medieval Christian law of sanctuary. According to it, any person can claim safety from any sort of law enforcement within the bounds of the church. I grew up watching it illustrated beautifully in the Disney film The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as the gypsy Esmeralda takes refuge within the confines of Notre Dame multiple times. Sometimes as I make my retreat back into the confines of the bathroom, I feel that I should similarly call out “Sanctuary!” to stake my claim to the protection of the bathroom floor.

Perhaps this instinct is somewhat sacrilegious. Yet the church is supposed to be a place apart, a place of worship, stillness, and proximity to a higher being. The bathroom is similarly a place apart, and in stillness it is often easier to detect wisps of eternity. While Esmerelda seeks to escape the tyranny of moral superiority, I seek to escape the tyranny of my overwhelming emotions. We both claim the power of a place apart, mine just has a bit less stained glass.

I will continue to unapologetically use the bathroom floor as my sanctuary. I will not be ashamed, and I will bring whatever and whoever is available to serve as emotional support. The next time you feel overwhelmed, I suggest you try it out. Dwell in the safety of the private, the linoleum, and predictably apart.

Susannah Boersma

Susannah currently lives in New Jersey and works as a 7th grade ELA teacher in East Harlem. When she is not teaching or writing, she can be found exploring independent bookstores, going backpacking, and trying to roller-skate on all the cool trails in the city. She is also recently experienced in the art of citrus skunk repellent (I know you’re impressed).