The College Student Who Knew Every Bathroom on Campus
By the middle of sophomore year, she knew every private bathroom on campus.
There was one in the basement of the library that almost nobody used. Another hidden behind an administrative hallway in the student center. A single-stall bathroom near the art building that stayed quiet between classes.
When she walked into a new building, part of her attention automatically scanned for exits and bathrooms before she even noticed where the classroom was.
Nobody else had any idea this was what she did.
From the outside, she looked organized, calm, high-achieving. She went to class. Met friends for coffee. Turned assignments in on time. She laughed during conversations while part of her mind quietly tracked how her stomach felt.
Some mornings started with calculations before she even got out of bed.
How far apart are my classes today?
What if my stomach acts up during the exam?
What if I get stuck in the middle row?
What if I need to leave suddenly?
What will my professors think if I have to leave multiple times?
College itself sometimes felt emotionally complicated.
There were always people around. Shared bathrooms. Dining halls. Long lectures. Group plans. Friends knocking on dorm room doors unexpectedly. Weekend trips. Crowded events. Late nights out.
She wanted to be a part of all of that, but also wished for a lot of space.
She wanted to feel spontaneous. Relaxed. Included. She wanted to say yes to things without mentally preparing first.
At the same time, another part of her constantly searched for privacy, predictability, and a way to avoid embarrassment.
She sometimes chose seats near exits without realizing she was doing it.
She arrived early to unfamiliar buildings so she could quietly locate bathrooms before class started.
Certain campus events felt riskier. Long car rides with friends could trigger hours of anticipatory thinking beforehand.
Sometimes she canceled plans not because symptoms were severe, but because she felt too exhausted to keep managing the uncertainty around them.
Even on relatively “good” days, it could feel difficult to fully relax.
Part of her attention stayed focused on monitoring, scanning, predicting, and preparing.
And because stress is often talked about casually, she sometimes felt frustrated when people suggested she should “just relax.”
The experience felt much more layered than that.
Her body no longer felt fully predictable.
Certain places no longer felt neutral.
College is often imagined as a time of spontaneity — crowded dining halls, late-night conversations, group trips, packed schedules, dorm life, always being around people.
But for students living with IBS, all of that constant closeness can sometimes begin feeling emotionally complicated.
There can be a quiet tension between wanting connection and wanting privacy at the exact same time.
Wanting to go out with friends, while also mentally calculating where the bathrooms will be.
Wanting to seem relaxed and spontaneous, while part of the mind stays focused on escape routes, symptoms, or the possibility of urgency.
Wanting to fully participate in college life, while also sometimes wanting a place to simply be alone and not have to think about the body for a while.
And because college environments offer so little control over space, routines, noise, food, schedules, or privacy, the nervous system can begin staying on alert much more often than other people realize.
Over time, the exhaustion is not always coming only from digestive symptoms themselves.
Sometimes it also comes from the constant balancing act of trying to feel both socially connected and physically safe at the same time.
If this story resonated with you, and you’re looking for support in navigating
the gut-brain connection, I’d be glad to talk.
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