23/12/2025
This is a great read; although it unfortunately is not only in America where hygiene poverty is happening. Charles and I have attended for a few years now a fundraiser which a company called Cleanology who have been organising the event to raise funds and awareness for the hygiene bank in the UK. There are 4.2 million people in this country who are in hygiene poverty and miss school or work everyday due to the embarrassment of not being able to wash, clean their teeth, clean their clothes etc. We are hoping to do a small bit this year at the Loo of The Year Awards on the 14th January by asking our guests to bring along a donation of one or more products that can be donated to the Hygiene Bank. There are also yellow donation bins in Boots in our High Streets for the Hygiene Bank too.
I didn’t find drugs in the bathroom stall. I found a child trying to wash shame out of her jeans with cold tap water, trembling so hard the porcelain sink rattled.
My name is Martha. I’m 72 years old. I should be retired, sitting on a porch somewhere drinking iced tea. But with the price of gas and groceries these days, "retired" is a luxury I can’t afford. So, I mop the floors at Northwood High every night after the buses leave.
People don’t look at the janitor. I’m just a ghost in a grey uniform pushing a yellow bucket. But that’s the thing about being invisible—you see everything.
I see the divide. I see the kids with the $200 sneakers and the shiny SUVs waiting in the parking lot. And I see the others. The ones who wear hoodies in 90-degree heat to hide holes in their shirts. The ones who hoard the free cafeteria apples in their backpacks because the fridge at home is empty. The ones who walk with their heads down, terrified that one wrong move will end up recorded on a smartphone and posted for the whole school to laugh at.
Being a teenager in America right now isn't just hard; it’s a battlefield.
It was a Tuesday in November, raining hard. I pushed into the girls' restroom on the second floor and heard the sobbing. It wasn’t a drama-queen cry; it was that gut-wrenching, silent gasping of someone whose world just ended.
I looked under the stall door. Sneakers worn down to the sole. And a puddle of red on the tile.
It was a girl named Sarah. Maybe fifteen. She was sitting on the toilet lid, knees pulled to her chest. She had used up all the toilet paper and was desperately trying to fold rough, brown paper towels into her underwear.
My heart shattered. I know that panic. In this economy, a box of tampons costs as much as a decent lunch. For some families, that’s a choice they have to make: food or dignity.
I didn't speak. Shame hates an audience. I just mopped the rest of the room loudly so she knew I was there, then I left a "Wet Floor" sign outside the door to buy her time. I went to my cart, grabbed my own emergency spare clean t-shirt and a small pack of pads I keep for myself. I slid them under the stall door with a gentle push.
"Honey," I said, my voice rasping a bit. "Put the shirt around your waist. Toss the rest in the bin. I’ll take care of the floor. Just go."
I heard a sniffle, then a whisper. "Thank you."
The next day, I didn't see Sarah. But I couldn't get the image out of my head. How many others? How many girls miss school because they can’t afford what they need? How many boys walk around sweating because deodorant is five dollars a stick?
There was a broken locker at the end of the math hallway. Locker 305. The mechanism was jammed so it wouldn't lock, and the school hadn't fixed it in years.
That night, I stopped at the discount store. I spent $20—money I really needed for my own electric bill—and bought generic pads, a stick of neutral deodorant, a pack of wet wipes, and a box of granola bars.
I put them in Locker 305 with a note on a neon index card: “Take what you need. No questions. No cameras. You are loved.”
By morning recess, the locker was empty.
I refilled it two days later. Toothpaste. A pair of warm socks. A cheap comb.
Gone in an hour.
I thought I would have to keep doing this alone, scraping pennies from my paycheck. But kids... kids are smarter than we give them credit for. And they are kinder than the news tells you.
Two weeks later, I went to check Locker 305 to restock it. It wasn't empty.
Someone had left a nearly full bottle of expensive shampoo. There was a sealed bag of pretzels. A handful of travel-sized lotions. And a sticky note written in purple glitter pen: “Pay it forward.”
It started a chain reaction. We called it "The Ghost Locker."
It became the heartbeat of the hallway. I watched from the sidelines, mopping the linoleum, acting like I didn’t know a thing. I saw a linebacker from the football team—a giant boy who usually looked tough as nails—check left and right, then quickly slide a stick of deodorant and a bag of beef jerky into the locker. I saw the "popular" girls, the ones who usually only cared about their follower counts, leave brand-new makeup samples and hair ties.
It wasn't just hygiene anymore. It became a lifeline.
One freezing January morning, I found a winter coat in there. It was used, but clean. Pinned to the sleeve was a note: “I outgrew this. Stay warm.” An hour later, I saw a boy who had been shivering in a windbreaker all winter walking down the hall, wearing that coat. He stood taller. He looked human again.
Of course, in today's world, nothing good stays hidden forever.
The administration found out. "Liability issues," they called it. "Unsanitary distribution." "Safety hazard." You know the words—the red tape people use when they want to stop something they can't control.
The Vice Principal, a man who stared at spreadsheets more than students, marched down the hall with a padlock. He was going to shut down Locker 305.
He gathered a crowd. He started lecturing about "school policy" and "proper channels." He raised the padlock to seal it shut.
"Stop."
It wasn't a teacher who spoke. It was Sarah.
She stepped out of the crowd. She was shaking, her face bright red. Teenagers today are terrified of public speaking, terrified of being cancelled or mocked. But she stood there.
"You can't close it," she said, her voice cracking. "That locker is the only reason I came to school today."
Then another voice. A boy from the back. "I got lunch from that locker when my dad lost his job last month."
Then another. "I got a toothbrush there."
"I got gloves."
Dozens of kids. Rich, poor, black, white, athlete, math geek. They all stepped forward. It wasn't a riot; it was a wall of truth. They were protecting the one place in the school that didn't judge them. The one place that didn't care about their grades or their parents' income or their Instagram likes.
The Vice Principal lowered the lock. He looked at the faces—really looked at them, maybe for the first time all year. He looked at the cheap granola bars and the generic tampons inside the metal box. He saw the need he had been ignoring.
He didn't lock it. He cleared his throat, turned around, and walked away.
The locker stayed open.
I still mop the floors at Northwood High. My back hurts more these days, and the winters feel colder. But every night, when I pass Locker 305, I pause.
It belongs to them now.
Yesterday, I saw Sarah again. She’s a senior now, getting ready to graduate. She was standing by the locker, teaching a terrified-looking freshman girl how the "system" works. I saw Sarah slip a chocolate bar into the younger girl's hand and whisper, "It’s okay. We’ve got you."
I walked to my janitor’s closet and sat on a bucket, weeping.
We live in a loud, angry world. We turn on the TV and hear people screaming at each other. We see billionaires building rockets while people down the street can't afford insulin. We feel small. We feel like nothing we do matters.
But I’m telling you, from the quiet hallways of a high school at midnight: You are wrong.
You don't need a government grant to change the world. You don't need a viral hashtag. You don't need to be rich.
You just need to notice.
You need to see the person standing next to you. The one struggling to count out change at the grocery store. The neighbor whose lights haven't been on in a while. The kid sitting alone on the bench.
The world keeps telling these kids—and us—to toughen up. To hustle. To look out for Number One. But life is hard enough without carrying the weight of it alone.
Locker 305 taught me that kindness is contagious. It spreads faster than any virus. It just needs a spark.
So, please. If you are reading this on your phone, scrolling past the noise and the anger: Be the spark.
Leave the extra quarter in the cart. Buy the coffee for the stranger behind you. Drop a can of soup in the donation bin. Smile at the "invisible" people who clean your floors and serve your food.
It might look like nothing to you. Just a small, throwaway moment.
But to someone else? It might be the very thing that convinces them to keep going for one more day.
Don't wait for permission to be kind. Just open the door. And know that the world needs more kindness than anything else ✨
