quietlyradical

I remember standing outside the men’s restroom, trying to look calm.

My son was small—too young for me to feel comfortable sending him in alone, but too old to bring into the women’s room without hesitation. I stood there, pretending not to worry, listening for any sign that he might need me. Every second stretched longer than it should have. I wasn’t thinking about politics or policy. I was thinking about safety.

Public restrooms have always been about safety. But not in the way our current debates would have us believe.

Today, some argue that people should be required to use the restroom that corresponds with the sex they were assigned at birth. The reasoning is simple on its surface: this will protect cisgender women from men who might pretend to be transgender in order to gain access to women’s spaces. It’s an argument rooted in fear—a fear that deserves to be taken seriously. But when we examine it more closely, the logic begins to unravel.

Consider, first, the reality of transgender women. Many are not visibly identifiable as transgender. They move through the world as women in every aspect of their daily lives. Forcing them into men’s restrooms does not increase safety—it exposes them to it. Harassment, intimidation, even violence become far more likely in spaces where they are perceived as different, or worse, as targets. In attempting to protect one group, these policies place another directly in harm’s way.

Then there are transgender men—individuals who were assigned female at birth but who live and present as male. After transitioning, many are indistinguishable from cisgender men. Requiring them to enter women’s restrooms creates confusion and discomfort, not just for them, but for everyone else in the space. The policy assumes that gender is obvious, fixed, and easily categorized. Real life is not so simple.

In fact, these policies may create the very danger they claim to prevent. If restroom access becomes a matter of declaration or appearance, what is to stop a bad actor from exploiting that ambiguity? A cisgender man intent on harm does not need a policy to justify his actions—but a poorly designed policy may give him cover. In that sense, the solution fails on its own terms. It does not eliminate risk; it shifts it, and in some cases, amplifies it.

And what of those who do not fit neatly into any category? Gender has never been as clear-cut as we pretend. I think of the old Saturday Night Live character Pat—ambiguous, unknowable, a source of humor at the time but also a reflection of our deep discomfort with uncertainty. There are people in the real world whose appearance does not clearly signal “male” or “female.” Where are they supposed to go? Who decides?

The practical challenges alone are staggering. How would such a law even be enforced? Would we station guards outside restrooms, asking for identification? Birth certificates? Would strangers be empowered to question one another’s bodies, their identities, their right to occupy a space as basic as a public restroom? The very idea feels invasive, unworkable, and at odds with any reasonable expectation of privacy.

There is, however, a simpler and more humane solution—one that has existed all along. Unisex or family restrooms.

These spaces are not radical. They are practical. They serve parents with young children, caregivers assisting elderly or disabled loved ones, and yes, transgender and nonbinary individuals. They would have served me, too, on those anxious days when I stood outside a door, hoping my child would be safe on the other side. Expanding access to these kinds of facilities addresses real concerns without singling out or endangering any group.

Which raises a more difficult question: what is this debate really about?

If the goal were truly safety, we would be investing in solutions that make everyone safer—solutions grounded in reality, not fear. Instead, we see policies that are difficult to enforce, that misunderstand how gender works in the real world, and that disproportionately burden a small and already vulnerable population. It is worth asking whether the discomfort at the heart of this issue is less about safety and more about the visibility of transgender people in public life.

I think back to that moment outside the restroom, to the quiet fear I carried as a mother. Safety, I have learned, is not created by exclusion. It is created by thoughtful design, by empathy, and by a willingness to see one another clearly.

A society that truly values safety does not force people into spaces where they are at risk. It builds spaces where everyone—every child, every parent, every person—can exist without fear.