Hostile Architecture in Our Hearts
What tilt benches are keeping people from settling too close to you?
The last time I was on a work trip in Chicago, I wasn’t managing my stress well… 😅
and I really needed a moment to breathe, so I wandered over to a park.
I’d imagined myself settling on a cozy bench, letting my mind idle. But when I tried to sit, I practically got launched right back up—like I’d hopped on a see-saw with an invisible partner. The bench tilted, and so did my mood.
I couldn’t help thinking, Is this bench trying to get rid of me?
A wry little laugh slipped out as I imagined the city’s design team cackling, “No loitering here, folks!” It was comical at the moment—until I felt a pang of sadness.
Isn’t a public park supposed to bring people together?
I was left staring at this wobbly bench, suddenly aware of just how much effort had gone into making people feel…unwelcome. Tiny bumps and ridges on concrete ledges, armrests installed in the middle of benches at odd angles—anything to make sitting just uncomfortable enough so that people won’t linger too long—reminded me how easy it is to prioritize keeping others out over inviting them in.
And that’s when a quieter question surfaced: Do I do that, too?
Do I—without realizing—design my own “hostile architecture” within my heart? In subtle ways, do I send signals that say, “Please don’t get too close,” or “Keep out”? Thinking back to that tilting bench, I realized it wasn’t just an odd piece of park furniture. It was a mirror, reflecting the tiny ways I might be pushing people away without meaning to.
I remembered moments when I buried my face in my phone instead of meeting a stranger’s eyes, or times I shot off a brisk “Sorry, busy!” text to a friend—often when I wasn’t actually swamped. Each instance was like installing a small tilt in my own mind, quietly telling others, “Don’t settle here.”
Realizing that hit me with a mix of shame and relief.
Shame, because I saw how I’d built these micro-barriers; relief, because if I constructed them, maybe I could remodel them, too.
The Emotional Tilt Bench
When I looked closer, I saw that I’ve created more than one “tilt bench” in my heart. Like a city ordinance gone unchecked, these barriers accumulate from old hurts, heartbreaks, or the persistent fear that I’m never quite enough.
They’re nothing dramatic—just subtle nudges that leave people off-balance and keep me feeling a little safer.
What’s hopeful is that noticing these emotional tilt-benches is the first step toward taking them down. Maybe that means catching myself in the act of retreating behind a phone screen, or gently naming that pang of self-doubt that tempts me to shut others out. It’s a gradual process, one that invites both courage and compassion.
Still, the prospect of reclaiming these no-loitering zones—from “Stay away” to “You’re welcome here”—feels like a breath of fresh air.
More than anything, I realized these barriers don’t have to remain permanent. A bit of honest reflection, a dash of humility, and plenty of grace—for myself and those around me—might be all I need to slowly reshape the architecture within my own heart.
So, I dared myself to linger, tilting bench and all.
I found a semi-stable spot (less seesaw, more teeter-totter), and let my gaze wander. The winter sunshine caught a flash of color—kids playing across a nearby beach, someone walking a goofy golden retriever that stopped to sniff absolutely everything. For a moment, I forgot about the bench’s not-so-subtle message.
I felt…lighter.
Maybe that’s the heart of it: noticing these hidden “No Trespassing” signs in our minds isn’t about judging ourselves; it’s about giving ourselves—and each other—permission to stay a little longer. To connect, even if we feel awkward. To let people in, even when the world seems to say, “Keep your distance.”
Because, yes, the world can feel tilted. But each time we choose to remove one tiny barrier—like meeting a neighbor’s eyes instead of staring at our shoes—we soften the edges. We come closer to what we’re truly made for: belonging.
Your Turn:
Where might you be installing your own tilt benches?
How can you—today, in this messy, complicated world—invite someone to linger just a little longer?
I’d love to hear your thoughts if you’re up for sharing.
About Alex
I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.
As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.
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Alex, the mere fact that you question if you have tilt benches in your heart tells me that you likely have far fewer than most people do. The self reflection here shows self-grace and honest vulnerability.
Whenever I read your work I feel like I am listening to a really good friend.
I know we already are, and I want to ask out loud like a grad schooler with a beaming heart….will you be my friend??
I feel like we could spend hours on a filthy bench and find ways to be comfortable and giggly at the same time, cuz that’s what friendship and true connection is.
Alex,
First, I love your metaphors. "Hostile architecture" is a perfect phrase, albeit a pretty jarring one. As I read your piece today, I thought about the times I am out and about in my community and what happens when I "unplug" from my phone while I'm walking at the park or shopping at the store or waiting in line somewhere. To be clear: it is incredibly awkward for this introvert, but it is rewarding.
What I mean is that, because I'm not glued to my phone in a waiting room, I am more apt to notice the person who needs the door held open for them, and then I hop up to do it. My head is up, not down, so I am more inclined to make eye contact with strangers and smile at them. I'll notice details, like the decorations adorning an administrative assistant's cubicle, and spontaneously comment and compliment them.
People are generally surprised when I do this. Sometimes I surprise myself, because it's all unscripted, unplanned. I just respond to the moment I find myself in, and it doesn't feel comfortable for me, but I do it, because I know from experience how powerful these micro-moments of connection can be for others. I have received a lot of strange looks, startled and taken aback. I have received comments along the lines of, "Well, thank you. No one has ever said that before!" Or "Wow, I really appreciate your patience/politeness/kindness. We don't really get that very often around here." Etc.
When I was younger, I never realized the power of small moments of connection. I shied away from them, sticking to my familiar bubble of familiar people. But now I try to deliberately step outside of what is known and comfortable so that I can encounter all sorts of people.
And you know who taught me that? My very own Sarah. I have a story about Sarah going up to a man we learned was named Steve at a medical facility. At the time, Sarah approached everyone in waiting rooms. She was a little over two years old and just wobbled right up to some rando person, much to my horror. But every time she did it, the person would literally light up like a Christmas tree and tell me, usually with tears in their eyes, that Sarah's smile brightened their day, cheered them, sometimes after they'd received hard news.
That's the power of connection.