I Was In The Women’s Toilet When A Man Came In And Called Out A Question That Left Me Nauseated

“Hello? Are you a male or female in there?” a rumbling voice called into the women’s toilet. A man’s boots stepped across the threshold, clunking on the tile floor, as I sat alone in the stall closest to the door.

I stopped breathing and my heart skipped. My pants were down around my ankles, and no one else was within earshot.

My hands went to where my freshly shorn curls used to be — fingers twining into my two remaining inches of hair — and I wondered if I had made a mistake.

I had been using women’s toilets my entire life, from when I had long braided pigtails and my mum taught me to lay down two layers of toilet paper on the seat, to my road trip around California as a white, skinny, short, nonbinary person in my early 30s.

***

My partner and I were on an adventure. We had sublet our apartment and were camping in a van for the summer. We slept every night on a memory foam mattress in the van and cooked most of our meals outdoors on a propane stove. Immersed in nature, at a distance from society and community, I could recognise my true self more clearly, and I took the opportunity to explore a more masculine appearance.

I don’t have much experience with people thinking I might be a man. Growing up, people always assumed I was a girl. I still can’t cut my hair without shame, hearing women’s voices in my head: “Oh, but your hair is so lovely, you should keep it long.” It’s as if I hurt my community every time I do it.

Despite the shame, I had cut my hair earlier that week, camped alongside a beautiful, remote river. I trimmed a couple of inches off to give myself the 2-inch-long “men’s” cut I usually give my partner. He is supportive of whatever hair length I want for myself. I squinted into a little travel mirror and lopped off chunks, feeling bits of hair drift down my bare shoulders. Finished with the trim, I dove into the brown river water and scrubbed my scalp with my fingers. I floated in the sun, naked and unjudged by the birds watching me from the trees.

I didn’t feel judged for my haircut until we travelled back into town. While I was washing my face at the sink in a public toilet, someone peeked in and then left. I put my glasses back on and walked out. A woman with long hair was standing outside, uncertain, wearing a long skirt. As she turned to face me, I said hello.

“Is this the women’s room?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered curtly, forced a smile, and walked away quickly, past the word “Women” in 6-inch green painted letters on the wooden wall of the building.

I guess I had been gendered as too-butch-to-be-in-the-women’s-room. Affirming? Slightly. But it was a preview to an unsolvable problem. If I’m not supposed to be in the women’s room, but I also can’t use the men’s, how can I use the bathroom?

***

My partner and I found a lovely city park with a picnic area and gazebo to eat breakfast in after camping on National Forest land nearby. After a mug of coffee, I visited the public toilet. I didn’t expect a stranger to yell at me through the flimsy stall door: “Hello? Are you a male or female?”

I was the only person using the toilet — the kids who had been in there a minute ago had left. I felt this man’s eyes on my sneakers and blue hiking pants under the stall. I was scared this harassment could escalate if I didn’t say something to diffuse the situation. I gulped and called back, “Hello?”

“Oh, you’re a female. My bad.” He sounded reassured by my quavering voice. I heard his footsteps leaving the room. My heart raced as I fumbled with toilet paper, fingers shaking. I felt nauseated.

My voice had immediately identified me as the “female” I didn’t feel myself to be — and all it took was two syllables. But my “female” voice had also saved me from further harassment. Would that man have dragged me out of the stall if I sounded “like a man” or remained quiet? Would he have looked under the stall? Would he have tried to check what was between my legs while my pants were down? Did he have any idea how much of a violation these real and imagined threats were to me?

And why was a man even in the women’s room, questioning me? Did a kid’s mother report me to her husband for looking too much like a man in the women’s room? Perhaps they were alarmed that I, with my short hair, had been in the public toilets with their young kids. I felt physically ill at the troubling thought that someone would assume I would do anything harmful to children. I hadn’t said anything, made eye contact with anyone or done anything other than sit quietly in the stall in the room that matches my assigned sex at birth.

I felt bad for looking masculine to make myself more comfortable, because I didn’t want to make anyone else uncomfortable. Some part of me longed to return to my habit of looking more like a woman, but I also felt sick from not feeling right in my body. 

***

I can empathise with these strangers viewing me and my body as a threat because I have also viewed my body as a threat. I have been unhappy with the shape of my body, my appearance in the mirror and the tone of my voice. And to have that thrown back in my face in such a vulnerable moment — pants down, defenceless, forced by my body’s very personal needs to be in this gendered room — hit close to home.

It did not occur to me to call the police, because the last thing I needed was to wait around for law enforcement to judge my qualifications to use a bathroom and give a police report about someone I hadn’t actually seen. Instead, I texted a friend — a woman with short hair — to tell her my story of being harassed in the bathroom and share how uncomfortable that made me. She responded that women have screamed after seeing her in the toilet, and she’d had security called on her. My experience seemed mild by comparison. I appreciated her perspective.

For the next several days, I felt intensely conflicted and full of gender dysphoria. I was tense and nervous using public toilets. I wore my pink hat, forced a big smile and strode in confidently, femininely, trying to look like the kind of woman no one would object to. But I’m not a woman. I came out as a transmasculine, nonbinary person in my late 20s — a person who feels more like a boy than a girl on the inside. A person whose anxiety and depression eased once I no longer had to hide who I am.

I have to choose between a women’s or men’s restroom in most public spaces, as unisex bathrooms are uncommon. Laws restricting bathroom access, which are becoming more prevalent in the United States, attempt to define sex based on whether an individual can produce eggs or sperm.

In practice, people look at your body shape, clothes and hair and make an assumption about which toilet you should use. Most people assume I would use the women’s room, so that’s what I continue to use. Trans women often have harder choices. Anyone who pushes back on my use of the women’s room suspects that I am a trans woman. They correctly identify me as trans, but in the incorrect direction. 

Trans women are the target of these “bathroom bills” and may encounter harassment and violence in either toilet. Being legally required to use the “wrong” toilet can out people as trans, which can be dangerous for them.

Trans women may need to go more frequently on average. One of the most common testosterone blockers, spironolactone, is a diuretic which means you need to pee often while taking it. The constant stress of navigating public spaces as a trans person with a filling bladder is incredibly — literally — painful. 

***

A couple of weeks later, my partner and I returned to the same city park. After relaxing at the picnic tables, I walked over to the bathroom. A new porcelain toilet sat whimsically outside the building, prepped for installation. Uh oh, I thought, rounding the corner to see a plumber with a pickup truck. A “closed for cleaning” sign was braced across the door of the women’s toilet.

The plumber, burly, with a beard, glanced at me and asked, “You need to use the restroom?” gesturing to the men’s door. I nodded, but looked back to peer past the closed sign into the women’s room.

“Oh, you want to use that one?” he asked, squinting at me. It was a cold morning. I was bundled up in a knit cap and two layered jackets. Looking at me, the plumber honestly seemed to think I was heading for the men’s. I shrugged and took what I hoped was a few casual steps toward the men’s room.

“Use the toilet in the last stall,” he prompted me. Perhaps the other plumbing hadn’t been hooked up yet.

“All right, thanks,” I said, pitching my voice down, trying to sound like I’d meant to go in the men’s room all along.

I used the toilet in the empty men’s room to pee, washed my hands, walked out, nodded to the plumber and walked off. I felt rattled but also surprisingly comfortable. Someone had told me that I could use that bathroom, that stall, and I felt validated in doing the right thing. It was the opposite of being questioned for being in the women’s room. I hadn’t made anyone else uncomfortable by existing. Was that a success? Is not making anyone uncomfortable except myself a healthy baseline?

***

Although that experience felt validating, using the “wrong” bathroom can have very real consequences. In California, I didn’t face legal consequences for using a men’s bathroom. If I had instead been in Florida and refused to leave the men’s bathroom if asked, I could have been charged with criminal trespass, likely a first-degree misdemeanor, which carries a prison term of up to one year or a $1,000 fine. 

Proponents of “bathroom bills” claim they protect children from predators, but assaulting children in restrooms (or anywhere else) is already illegal. A bathroom law doesn’t physically prevent male abusers already willing to break the law from stepping into women’s spaces. However, these laws can prevent trans women from comfortably and legally using any public bathroom, including toilets in their workplace. 

U.S. Rep. Nancy Mace introduced the Protecting Women’s Private Spaces Act in November 2024. If enacted, this law would prohibit transgender individuals from using restrooms that align with their gender identity on federal property, specifically targeting U.S. Rep. Sarah McBride, the first openly transgender member of Congress, who would no longer be allowed to use the women’s bathroom at her workplace in the Capitol.

I am lucky I don’t work in a place where I can’t use the bathroom, but navigating my gender identity is still a constant struggle — not solely with myself, but with everyone I interact with. I have to justify my gender expression to strangers and negotiate with them, whether or not our interactions are negative or positive. So why do I subject myself to this frustration? Because it would hurt more to hide myself every moment of every day. 

Finding more authentic ways to express myself feels like a weight that I wasn’t aware of has been lifted off my chest, and suddenly, I can breathe deeply, newly grounded in the reality of my body. Swimming in the river after I cut my hair, I felt distantly afraid but excited about what was to come. I felt grateful I took this step toward my true self.

Rey Katz is a nonbinary writer, MIT alum, small-business owner, and black belt in Kokikai Aikido. They are working on a memoir about coming of age as a nonbinary martial artist. Check out their relatable true stories at Amplify Respect and small biz services at reykatz.com.

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