Systems have been failing women for so long that sometimes it genuinely feels like the world was never built with women in mind in the first place.
Not maliciously.
Not always intentionally.
But structurally.
Architecturally.
Operationally.
Quietly.
I realised this properly while navigating Johannesburg during my menstrual cycle the other day.
And no — this is not another “period poverty” story.
I had money.
I had access to shops.
I knew my cycle.
I was prepared… until the day became longer, messier, and more unpredictable than expected.
Which, if we’re being honest, is exactly how real life works.
What struck me wasn’t the inconvenience itself.
It was how normalised the inconvenience already was.
Because the moment things started becoming uncomfortable, I immediately switched into adaptation mode — the mode women know intimately:
Calculate.
Adjust.
Endure.
Carry on.
No drama.
No announcement.
No expectation that the environment would accommodate me.
Just silent management.
Take taxi rank bathrooms.
At Noord taxi rank, the public bathrooms sit directly on the pavement — surrounded by relentless foot traffic, informal traders, noise, congestion, and people constantly moving past.
Women selling fruit.
Men unloading boxes.
Commuters rushing.
People eating.
People staring without staring.
And right there, in the middle of all that exposure, sits a public bathroom women are somehow expected to use comfortably and with dignity.
Who designed that?
Who looked at that setup and thought: “Yes, this creates privacy. This creates dignity. This feels safe.”
Because let’s be honest: most women are not entering those bathrooms unless they absolutely have no other option.
Not because women are “too picky.”
Not because women are “dramatic.”
Because dignity matters.
Privacy matters.
Cleanliness matters.
Safety matters.
The ability to adjust your clothes, clean yourself properly, or change a pad without feeling publicly exposed should not be treated like a luxury feature in public infrastructure.
And yet somehow, it still is.
The deeper issue is this:
Women have become so good at adapting to broken systems that the systems themselves escape scrutiny.
Women know which malls have usable bathrooms.
Women know which petrol stations are “safe.”
Women know which routes are too risky during heavy-flow days.
Women know how to wear dark clothing “just in case.”
Women know how to quietly panic while externally appearing completely fine.
That last one especially.
Because if you had looked at me that day, you would never have known I was uncomfortable.
You would have seen another woman navigating Johannesburg: walking fast, watching her bag, moving with purpose.
You would not have seen the constant background calculation happening in my head:
How much longer?
Can I still manage?
Where is the next bathroom?
Will it be clean?
Will it be safe?
Will there be tissue?
Will there be privacy?
That invisible mental labour is exhausting.
And women perform it so routinely that society has mistaken it for normal.
But adaptation is not proof that systems work.
Sometimes adaptation is proof that women have simply stopped expecting systems to work for them.
And once you notice it, you start seeing it everywhere.
Public transport designed with no consideration for long-duration bodily needs.
Bathrooms treated as afterthoughts.
Urban spaces where women constantly negotiate between safety and basic bodily care.
Infrastructure designed around a body uninterrupted by biology.
As though the ideal citizen never bleeds.
Never cramps.
Never feels vulnerable.
Never needs privacy.
And perhaps historically, that was the body public systems were designed around.
The problem is not menstruation.
The problem is that public systems still treat menstruation as a private inconvenience women should solve quietly for themselves.
Preferably invisibly.
Preferably without slowing anything down.
Preferably without making anyone uncomfortable.
So women become experts at management.
At improvisation.
At shrinking their needs.
At carrying backup plans for systems that never planned for them in return.
And maybe that is the real question:
How many parts of public life only appear functional because women are absorbing the failures silently?
Not just in menstrual health.
In care work.
In transport.
In safety.
In emotional labour.
In public hygiene.
In daily continuity itself.
How much invisible labour is keeping broken systems appearing operational?
Because I suspect the answer is: far more than we are willing to admit.
What I experienced that day was not a crisis.
That is exactly the point.
It was ordinary.
Painfully ordinary.
And perhaps that is the most revealing thing of all.
The systems women struggle through most are often not catastrophic.
They are simply consistently inconsiderate.
Small indignities.
Small exclusions.
Small discomforts.
Repeated endlessly.
Until women stop expecting better altogether.
But public space does not have to function this way.
Bathrooms can be designed differently.
Transport hubs can include menstrual products as standard infrastructure.
Urban planners can account for safety and dignity simultaneously.
Policy can recognise continuity — not just access.
And systems can stop assuming women will simply “manage somehow.”
Because for decades, they have.
Quietly.
Brilliantly.
Exhaustingly.
The question is whether they should have had to in the first place.
The Middflow Project
Equity by Design
#DesignedOut #PublicSpace #MenstrualHealth #Infrastructure #InvisibleLabour #UrbanEquity #MiddflowProject
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