Designing Curb Cuts for Invisible Backpacks

Hello,

Are you familiar with the concept of an “invisible backpack?” I've been thinking and writing about this concept for years (see the post, "The Things We Carry"). It’s the idea that each of us carries unseen burdens—past traumas, feelings of inadequacy, worries about loved ones, or struggles with addiction. These weights are deeply personal, often kept hidden, and yet they profoundly shape our daily experiences. Ironically, the effort to conceal them can make them feel even heavier.

In one of my most-read posts yet, “If You Really Knew Me,” I wrote about Challenge Days—an initiative where students and teachers build relationships of trust. The results? Improved social well-being, better discipline outcomes, enhanced mental health, and, of course, stronger academic performance. When we create safe spaces where people can share what’s in their invisible backpacks, we help lighten their load.

At the same time, you can have an exceptionally strong relationship with someone and still not be completely open about what you’re carrying. For example, in my life, I have someone who I call “my person,” inspired by the term of endearment used by Christina Yang and Meredith Grey in Grey’s Anatomy.

If you’re unfamiliar with this concept and not interested in watching the video above, the gist is that your person is the person you would call if you murdered someone and needed help burying the body. Talk about a secret you’d not want someone to know, right?! Your person is closer than a best friend but likely not someone who you’re related to. Anyway, I talk with my person every day, sharing everything from minor frustrations to major life challenges. She knows everything about me; nothing is off-limits. I know she loves me unconditionally, doesn’t judge me, has my best interests at heart, will take out her earrings and fight someone who looks at me the wrong way, and, yes, help me bury the body. And, sometimes when I’m having a really hard time–like really hard–all I can say even to her is, “I don’t feel fit for human consumption.” This is my way of communicating that the weight of the stress, overwhelm, and despair is so heavy and I feel so weak that I cannot even muster the strength to talk about it with her.

This reality—that we never truly know what others are carrying—reinforces the need for universal empathy. In Recovery by Russell Brand and A Heart That Works by Rob Delaney, both authors share their struggles with addiction and grief with extraordinary vulnerability. Most of us, however, aren’t that brave. We keep our burdens hidden. And that’s precisely why we must approach others with care—not because something might be going on, but because something always is for everyone.

So how do we create environments where those with the heaviest backpacks feel safe, seen, and supported? A friend recently shared a video called “Curb Cut,” which changed how I think about this question.

The video follows a teacher whose students visited Washington, D.C., to learn about designing for equity and access. A speaker asked, "Who has used a curb cut today?" Curb cuts—those sloped sidewalk sections originally designed for wheelchair users—are now used by parents with strollers, travelers with rolling luggage, and countless others. The speaker explained,

When we design for the extreme user, we open pathways for many others we hadn’t even considered.

This concept transformed the teacher’s approach to designing assignments. Previously, he had tried to consider all students, but in doing so, he realized he hadn’t deeply considered any of them. Instead, he decided to design an assignment specifically for his most disengaged student–-his extreme user. The result? That student thrived, their relationship improved, and surprisingly, the entire class benefited from the changes made with this one student in mind.

If we can design lessons with the extreme user in mind, what might it look like to design environments for the extreme invisible backpack carriers in mind? How would we structure our classrooms, workplaces, or organizations to support those carrying the heaviest loads? What designs would improve the environment for someone…

Whose parent is terminally ill?
Who is going through their own or a loved one’s divorce?
With social anxiety?
Living in a car with their family?
A rape survivor?
Who escaped a country with a dictator-led regime?
Whose sibling committed suicide?

This is not how would we respond if someone disclosed this information about themselves; this is about intentionally designing environments that proactively support everyone—even those who never reveal what they’re going through. What are the curb cuts we can build in education, leadership, and community spaces to lighten the loads of others, seen and unseen? Examples of design changes would include intentionally training people to be trauma-informed so they recognize changes in behavior as signals, not defiance and installing free showers and laundry facilities at schools or community centers. Other designs might include mental health days built into school and workplace policies and cultures where grief and loss can be acknowledged openly.

We may not share the same secrets, but we all share the same humanity. And when we design with that in mind, we create a world where everyone can move forward with a little less weight to carry.

~Heather

P.S. One of the fears felt by people about having the items in their invisible backpacks exposed is that people will assume that if someone knew about X, they would treat the person differently. One way people can be treated differently is by lowering the bar, believing that someone who had X happen wouldn’t be able to accomplish a high goal. In this video, Shelley Moore cautions viewers against negative assumptions of capability, reminding us about The Importance of Presuming Competence.