There’s something almost holy about the girls’ bathroom line. Maybe you’re tipsy, maybe you’re just holding your bladder and your handbag with equal urgency—and suddenly, you find yourself trauma-dumping on a girl you’ve never seen before in your life.
You don’t know her name, but you do know she’s on a terrible date with a finance guy who’s been explaining crypto for two and a half hours straight. She’s fake-coughing in the stall to make her escape seem believable. She doesn’t know your name either, but she now knows your zodiac sign, your attachment style, and that you cry over sad dog TikToks at exactly 2:00 a.m. every night. No context. No intro. Just full-volume vulnerability with a pinch of social panic.
By the time one of you makes it to the stall, you’ve emotionally time-traveled, bonded, and maybe even healed a little.
Oversharing isn’t a crime—it’s a coping mechanism.
You didn’t mean to tell someone you met 40 seconds ago about your 48-hour situationship, your childhood traumas, or that you’ve been lying to your therapist for so long it’s basically a performance piece now. But somehow, it all spills out.
And she gets it. Because 30 seconds later, she’s telling you about her $10 Manolo Blahniks from a secret vintage store, her toxic ex, allergy to commitment (and peanuts), and how she’s trying to stay ‘delusional, but in a productive way.’
It’s beautiful. It’s chaotic. It’s human.
So… why do we do this?
Because oversharing isn’t about attention. It’s about being seen—without the pressure of being known.
I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve walked out of a bathroom thinking, ‘Why did I just tell that woman about how I sh*t my pants in preschool?’ Or showed her my favorite TikToks (that only I laughed at), or vented about the identity crisis of being from a third-world country to someone who thought ‘Kazakhstan’ was just a Borat reference. But here’s the thing: you’ll probably never see them again. They don’t know your name. You don’t know theirs. You’re just two strangers in a strangely intimate pause—wedged between small talk, the sound of someone flushing, and the quiet horror of toilet paper stuck to someone’s shoe—silently agreeing that life is a lot and none of us really know what we’re doing.
We’ve all had that moment: waiting quietly in line, and suddenly you’re making a full-blown public speech, saying something like, ‘And that’s when I realized I’m literally just a girl.’ And the girl next to you nods—because somehow, she gets it.
She might not remember your name, but she’ll remember your story. Your voice. The fact that for two minutes, you trusted her with something fragile.
It’s not about being dramatic. It’s about being real.
Oversharing isn’t attention-seeking. It’s pressure-releasing.
It’s not about wanting the spotlight—it’s about not wanting to spontaneously combust from holding it all in. And funny enough, the people I’ve bonded with the deepest didn’t come from planned dinner parties. They came from spontaneous spirals over coffee, how cute my dog is, a vintage Louis Vuitton bag, or an emotional unraveling at a lame party that turned into an Instagram exchange and, somehow, a lifelong friendship.
Like when I first moved to London at 19. I had no one, knew nothing, and was surviving on 50 quid a week and hope. I only knew my tube line color and how to cry on public transport without making eye contact. But those breakdowns led to conversations. And those conversations led to connections. Some of them stuck. Some of them saved me.
So yes, maybe I overshare. Chronically. I’ve told total strangers things I haven’t even admitted to myself. Not because I’m unhinged (though… the jury’s out), but because sometimes a bathroom line is the only place quiet enough—and chaotic enough—for the truth to fall out of your mouth.
And let’s be honest: there’s something comforting about spilling your soul to someone who doesn’t know your name, but does know your rising sign. No pressure. No follow-ups. No brunch six months later where they bring it up unexpectedly.
Just two mildly unraveling strangers, standing under bad lighting, bonded by oversharing and the vague scent of citrus air freshener—forming a temporary emotional alliance that disappears the second someone says, “You’re up.”
And honestly? That’s some of the most raw, ridiculous, and real human connection I’ve ever had.
God bless public restrooms.
