I have an ileostomy. This means that I have had my colon removed and I have a stoma. This is on my stomach and it’s where my poop comes out from into an attached bag. You usually can’t see it and it doesn’t look as though I have any kind of disability (although it is legally classed as a disability).

To empty it, I need to kneel by the toilet and rinse it out with water. I fill a travel bottle up in the toilet and use this to rinse out the bag. Not rinsing is gross! Because of needing to kneel and have water on hand, I need to use the disabled toilets whenever I can.

I have a radar key to get me into them — it was given to me after I had my surgery. Using a non-disabled toilet is very difficult: hard to kneel, very little privacy, and no sink on hand.

Today I was at M&S and had to empty my bag, so I used the disabled toilet as usual. (FYI, almost all disabled toilets have signs on them that say ‘Not all disabilities are visible’!)

When I tried to come out of the toilet, my way was blocked by a woman who started to berate me for using the disabled toilet. Apparently, she saw me go in and had been waiting for me to come out.

She was in her sixties, smartly dressed, with an expensive-looking leather handbag slung over her arm and a grim expression that looked like it had settled in years ago. She stood with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

“Young people like you are unbelievable,” she said, loud enough for a few people nearby to turn and look. “Perfectly healthy and stealing toilets from those who actually need them.”

I blinked, still adjusting to the change from the quiet of the bathroom to the noise of the store. “Excuse me?”

“I saw you walk in,” she snapped. “There are plenty of regular toilets. That one’s for people with real needs. You should be ashamed.”

I could feel my cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and anger. It wasn’t the first time someone had said something like this, but it always hit like a punch to the gut.

“Ma’am,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I have a stoma. I wear a bag on my stomach because I don’t have a colon. I need to use the disabled toilet to empty it properly.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re walking around fine. You’re not even limping. People like my husband—he’s in a wheelchair—he needs that toilet.”

“Well, I’m sorry about your husband,” I said, “but I’m allowed to use this toilet. Not all disabilities are visible.”

“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You young people just want special treatment.”

Something in me snapped then. I’d been polite. I’d tried to explain. And still, she looked at me like I was scum.

“Look,” I said sharply, “do you want to see the bag I poop in? I’ll lift my shirt right now if that’s what it takes.”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide. “W-what?”

I pulled up my shirt a little—not enough to fully expose anything, but enough to show the plastic outline of the bag under my clothing. “This is why I use the disabled toilet,” I said. “Because I kneel on the floor to rinse this thing out so I don’t smell like a sewer. You want to keep yelling, or are we done?”

Her face went pale. She muttered something about manners and turned quickly, disappearing into the clothing racks.

I stood there for a moment, heart pounding, hands shaking a little. Then I took a deep breath, smoothed down my shirt, and walked back into the store like nothing had happened.

It would’ve ended there. But life has a funny way of circling back.

Two weeks later, I was back at the same M&S. I hadn’t even thought about that woman until I saw her again—this time with a man in a wheelchair. He was in his seventies, white-haired, and looked a bit frail, but he had a kind face. She was pushing him through the food section.

I tried to steer clear. I didn’t want another confrontation. But as I turned to leave the aisle, her husband caught my eye.

“You look familiar,” he said. His voice was soft but carried weight. “Have we met?”

I gave a polite smile. “Maybe. I come here often.”

He looked over at his wife, who had suddenly gone very still. She was watching me with a face that flickered between recognition and shame.

“You’re the young woman from the toilet,” he said gently.

I nodded, unsure of where this was going.

He smiled. “Thank you for standing up for yourself. My wife told me what happened. She didn’t mention your name, but I recognized you. I want you to know—she felt terrible afterwards. She doesn’t always think before she speaks.”

His wife looked down, studying a jar of pickles like it had the answer to world peace.

“It’s alright,” I said quietly. “It happens more than you’d think.”

“I believe you,” he said. “The world’s not built to understand what it can’t see.”

That hit me. Hard. I nodded, blinked back the lump in my throat, and muttered a quick goodbye before walking away.

Later that evening, I got a message through a community page I followed for local ostomy support. Someone had posted a story—anonymous—about a woman who’d wrongly confronted a younger person for using a disabled toilet, and how ashamed she felt after realizing the truth.

“She was kind about it,” the post read. “But she didn’t have to be. I let my frustration get the better of me. I’ll never judge someone like that again.”

It didn’t name me, but I knew it was her. The tone was apologetic, genuine. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe—just maybe—there was room for grace on both sides.

A few weeks after that, I was in the same M&S again—honestly, I should’ve just started shopping somewhere else, but it was convenient and close to home. This time, I had an accident.

It happens sometimes. The bag leaks or fills too quickly. I’d been running errands and hadn’t had a chance to check it. By the time I realized, it was too late. I felt the warmth seep through my waistband, and I nearly cried on the spot.

I darted toward the disabled toilet, holding my shopping bag in front of me like a shield. The door was locked, of course. I fumbled with my radar key, hands shaking.

“Need help?” someone asked behind me.

I turned, panicked, and nearly burst into tears when I saw who it was—her husband. The kind man in the wheelchair.

His wife stood next to him, already reaching into her handbag.

“She always carries wipes and a spare bag for me,” he said gently. “We’ve had a few close calls ourselves.”

I didn’t know what to say. But when she handed me the small emergency pouch and said, “We understand more than you think,” I just nodded and rushed inside.

When I came out twenty minutes later—cleaned up, changed, still rattled—they were waiting.

She smiled. “Would you like to grab a coffee with us? No strings. Just company.”

And so, we did.

We sat in the little café by the entrance and talked. Really talked. Her name was Margaret. His was Dennis. She told me about how hard it had been when Dennis first lost the use of his legs. How she’d gone from being his wife to also being his carer. How she’d carried anger around, not at anyone in particular, just… life.

“I saw you walk into that toilet and something just snapped,” she admitted. “I’ve spent years fighting for my husband to be treated with dignity. And when I saw you, I thought… here’s someone taking that away. But I was wrong. So wrong.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I used to judge people too. Before I got sick.”

Dennis reached out and touched her hand. “It’s easy to forget the world’s full of battles we don’t see.”

After that, we became unlikely friends. I’d visit them once a week, help Margaret carry groceries when Dennis couldn’t come. She’d text me reminders to check my bag before long trips, and Dennis, ever the joker, made me laugh until I cried more times than I could count.

One day, she even asked to come with me to an ostomy support group. Just to listen. To learn.

“I need to do better,” she said. “I can’t go back and fix how I treated you, but I can show up now.”

And she did.

Looking back, I’m not proud of how I snapped at her that day. But I don’t regret it either. Because that moment cracked something open—something that let us both be seen.

Not every story ends like this. Some people stay angry, some never apologize. But sometimes… sometimes they do. And sometimes, that apology becomes the start of something unexpectedly good.

So, was I the a**hole for being rude to her?

Maybe. A little. But life doesn’t always move in straight lines. Sometimes, it bends just enough to let in the light.

If you’ve ever felt judged for something invisible, or misjudged someone else, share this. Let’s keep reminding each other: kindness costs nothing, and it might just change everything.