I’ve loved the phrase “God of the bathroom floor” ever since I heard it. It’s used by Glennon Doyle and Elizabeth Gilbert (in Love Warrior and Eat Pray Love, respectively)
I used to say, people say that God is everywhere, but I think that God is in the bathroom because of the moments of rock bottom I’ve had on bathroom floors. That’s like my altar.
The bathroom has always held space for the emotional weight of al of me, time and time again. Small or large. Simple or fancy. Ever since I was little, I’ve loved to lock myself in and unfurl my wild, cozy, free self. Imagine my delight when I found out that girls bonding in the bathroom was an age-old tradition. I fit right in.
When I was a preteen, I would bring my headphones and iPod in, and dance wildly to the music. I spent so much time in there that my parents were definitely concerned. It didn’t matter that I was an only child and had my own room; there was just something about the privacy and containment of a bathroom. I’d lose myself in fantastical scenarios, based on the lyrics and mood of the songs. Sometimes I’d place myself in a favorite musical. Other times, I’d imagine myself as a character in a dramatic television show where I’d first heard the song. I even started a playlist of future ‘first dance’ songs for my wedding, inspired by the love ballads I’d sway to.
In my adult bathroom, in the apartment I share with no one, the bathroom is still a raw and sacred place for me. I fill it with candles and cozy towels (don’t ask me the last time I cleaned the tub, though.) I sometimes like to meditate right after a shower, or just sit quietly on the ledge of the tub in my towel. And there’s still quite a lot of dancing and daydreaming.
My favorite aunt, Eileen, died when I was in high school, and you can guess where the first place I wanted to go was. My grief was enormous and frightening. My whole world had changed in an instant. I knew she was old, but I had no idea that she was sick. I had an inmate need to be alone with a pain that I couldn’t put words to. I drowned out my sorrows with cathartic songs. I played ‘My Wish’ by the Rascal Flatts over and over again. It was the soundtrack of a card (the ones that play music when you open them) that I had given my Aunt for a holiday years ago. She told me how much she loved it and inquired about who sang the song. I remember her being quite amused by the name “Rascal Flatts.”
*I wrote this piece back in 2023, long before the Rascal Flatts 2025 inauguration performance for Trump. While I am no longer a fan and in no way support or associate with anyone who endorses Trump, I want to be truthful in this recollection, which is why I chose to keep this section about the Rascal Flatts,
My wish for you is that this life becomes all that you want it toYour dreams stay big, your worries stay smallYou never need to carry more than you can holdAnd while you're out there getting where you're getting toI hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too
Yeah, this is my wish
A while ago, I couldn’t figure out whether or not I wanted to go to a fun rooftop party in Brooklyn. Mentally, I really, really wanted to check it out. Physically, I couldn’t fathom hauling myself down there on the train.
I had just gotten back from an amazing trip that was very go go go. I made the most of every minute, excited to catch up with friends who I don’t get to see often. I walked a lot. I stayed up late and got up way earlier than usual. By the end of the trip, I wished that my flight would be delayed so that I could stay one more day. Deep down, I’m glad it wasn’t. My spirits were high, but my social battery was nonexistent. I fell asleep at the gate before we even boarded.
And yet, I couldn’t definitively decide that I wasn’t going to go to the party in Brooklyn. Even though no one would be mad if I didn’t. It causes me literal anguish to say no to plans, or worse, cancel them. Any recovering people pleasers relate?
Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves
- Mary Oliver
Pasta.
Sitting in my bathroom, scrolling through Instagram, I knew that I was craving pasta the minute I saw a recipe blog post.
The want bubbled up inside of me. That hunger — undeniable and ever-present
I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to go to this party in Brooklyn. But I knew I needed pasta. And I didn’t want to scarf it down and hop on the train. I wanted to savor it slowly and finish whatever book I was reading at the time.
And so I heated the water.
And threw in the pasta once the water boiled.
And returned to the bathroom for a few more meditative moments as the pasta cooked.
And it was delicious. All of it. Every bite of pasta. Every second of embodiment. Every second of listening to my desire, and trusting it to lead me to the right choices.
