The design of public bathrooms
Why something so ordinary can quietly undermine independence and dignity
When design works for you, it tends to fade into the background. It’s only when your life changes that you start to notice where it falls short.
Before I was pregnant, I never noticed how few public bathrooms there were.
Before I breastfed, I didn’t realize how important it would be to order diapers with one free thumb.
Before I used a stroller, I didn’t realize how my cute, historic hometown was basically inaccessible to anyone who relied on a cane or wheels to get around.
And before I had kids, I never realized how poorly public bathrooms were designed.
Most of these realizations are fleeting. You’re in the middle of it, looking for a clean place to feed your baby or trying to maneuver your stroller through a doorway, and then the phase passes. You forget what it felt like, partly because forgetting is how you survive it.
But the design of public bathrooms has stuck with me. Mostly, because it’s still a problem.
Even now, as my youngest approaches elementary school, I’m still needed for what should be a routine trip to the bathroom. What stays with me isn’t the inconvenience. It’s my son’s reaction to it.
He gets frustrated. He thinks he’s doing something wrong. He can’t reach the sink. The water shuts off halfway through rinsing. The soap dispenser won’t trigger.
But the problem isn’t him.
The problem is the design.
The myth of the simple task
Let’s set aside the logistics of actually going to the bathroom and focus on what comes next: washing your hands.
On the surface, this task seems simple. Most people don’t think about it. You turn on the water, wet your hands, get soap, wash, rinse, and dry. For the sake of this exercise, let’s assume the best-case scenario: the bathroom is clean, stocked, and technically working.
But what I noticed, again and again while traveling over the holidays, is that public bathrooms assume a body of a certain height, reach, strength, speed, and ability. As soon as you place a child into that system, the friction becomes visible.
Step 1: Turn on the water
Considerations:
Can they reach the sink?
Can they turn on the water themselves?
If it’s a sensor, does it register their hands, and for how long?
Is the water too hot?
Can they adjust the temperature?
Step 2: Get soap
Is the dispenser within reach?
If it’s manual, does it require more strength than they have?
If it’s automatic, does it respond to them at all?
Step 3: Wash
This part usually goes fine. It’s one of the few moments they actually control.
Step 4: Rinse
The issues from turning on the water return, this time with urgency. Hands are slippery. The water shuts off mid-rinse. Someone needs to step in.
Step 5: Dry hands
Is the hand dryer too loud, ineffective, or out of reach?
Are paper towels available and reachable?
Are trash cans close enough to prevent wet sleeves?
At every step, the design assumes an adult user. When a child struggles, it doesn’t register as a design problem. It feels like a personal one.
The unspoken assumption
It’s hard not to notice the underlying assumption: that a caregiver will always fill in the gaps.
That an adult will lift the child, pump the soap, restart the water, manage the mess.
But design should reduce the need for help, not rely on it.
What happens if the child is heavy?
When there are multiple kids?
When the caregiver is tired, injured, older, or carrying bags?
What better could look like
None of this feels especially radical.
Step stools
Sinks and fixtures at multiple heights
Accessible hand dryers and paper towels
Longer sensor timing
Sensors tested on multiple sizes of hands and bodies
Testing with different people, bodies, and abilities
And if you can’t test with a child, crouch down. Kneel. See the space from their level. The design failures become obvious.
Independence and dignity
What’s at stake here isn’t convenience. It’s whether people can move through the world without needing help for things that should feel ordinary.
When a child can wash their own hands without assistance, they feel capable and included. When they can’t, the struggle feels personal.
Public bathrooms are one of the few spaces that really do have to work for everyone. When they do, they disappear. When they don’t, the burden shows up immediately.
I know that one day my son won’t need my help to wash his hands anymore.
And I’ll forget all about these struggles, as these things tend to go.
Until my life changes again.
So true. Our public library leaves one of those old school library stools in the restroom. Truly a luxury experience.