There is a room in my home that contains no grandeur, no stained glass, no choir echoing in the corners. Yet it holds my quiet rebellions and sheltering truths. To call the bathroom sacred might seem a contradiction when its purpose is so simplistic: a space of porcelain tile and steam where function should reign supreme.
But it was in this plain room that I discovered something profound about myself without ever setting foot on a stage. Growing up, during family gatherings where the air buzzed with jokes sharp enough to slice, I would find refuge behind its locked door. At school dances, overwhelmed by the pounding bass and eyes as loud as the music, it became my shelter. In relationships affectionate in theory but thorny in practice, the bathroom was the one place where my reflection didn’t demand explanation before my expression could shift.
The lock was a simple thing, a piece of cheap metal with an easy twist. It didn’t impress, didn’t promise impenetrable protection, yet it held the world outside with undeniable assurance. Inside, I learned to notice how my shoulders relaxed as the door clicked shut. How the air shifted to accommodate my fuller breaths.
In that confined space, there were no demands to perform, to be agreeable or patient. Instead, I could be loud, let tears run without restraint, stare at my face without rearranging it to fit another’s ease. The cold tile didn’t judge the sound of heartbreak, the mirror collected every version of me: the boy scrubbing softness from his wrists, the young man compressing his laughter into something palatable, and the adult pulling back from a world that tolerated, used, and almost loved him.
Surrounded by these four walls, I rehearsed courage. Spoke words I wished I’d dared to voice. Claimed the presence I’d shrunk. Sometimes, in the fogged mirror, my reflection softened too, free from the confines of rigid angles and expectations. I’d trace a simple heart in the mist, my name, a question mark etched like an inquiry left hanging: Am I here? Each tracing, both answer and proof. Each moment, a small victory.
Outside, fear masquerades in polished forms. It dresses as politeness, overthinking, perfectionism. But within that locked space, it reveals itself plain and raw: “You are too much. No one will stay.” But those walls taught me to answer back, not with apologies, but with questions born of strength: “Too much for who? Stay at what cost?”
There were nights after the invisible status of being someone’s secret when scalding water washed over my skin, resurrecting strength with whispered affirmations: “You are not a shadow.” And in the morning, facing a tired, creased reflection, I’d question whether I believed in softness anymore at all.
The bathroom is my temple, not through glamour, but because here, I am entirely seen by the only witness who matters—myself. It asks for no disguise, accepts no curated persona. Just me, and perhaps in that simplicity, I find truth.
Kabal Briar