‘Worrying’ study reveals how few people wash their hands after using the toilet

It’s the kind of headline that makes you pause mid-scroll, hover your thumb over the screen, and think: wait, what?

According to a new global hygiene study, a significant percentage of people — across age groups, countries, and gender lines — are still not washing their hands after using the toilet. Yes, even after a years-long global pandemic that turned handwashing into a public safety campaign and turned soap into a household essential again.

The findings are unsettling. But they’re not just about germs. This is about something else entirely. Something cultural. Something behavioral. Something we don’t really like to admit. Because if we can’t trust that most people are washing their hands after the bathroom, what other invisible public rituals are quietly dissolving?

And what does it say about us — not just as individuals, but as a society — when we stop doing the one hygienic thing we were all taught as toddlers? Let’s unpack that.

In the recently released study — which surveyed thousands of participants across North America, Europe, and Asia — researchers found that less than 60% of respondents claimed to “always” wash their hands after using the toilet. The numbers dropped even further when the question was asked in environments without visible signage or social cues. One subset of the study used bathroom motion detectors to track sink usage — and those numbers painted an even grimmer picture.

When asked why they didn’t wash their hands, respondents gave a mix of reasons. Some said they were in a hurry. Others said the bathrooms were too dirty to touch anything. A handful admitted they just “forgot.” A few even suggested they didn’t see the point unless it was a “number two.”

But underneath those justifications is something harder to measure. It’s the erosion of a social contract — an unspoken understanding that some habits, no matter how tedious or automatic, are part of being a functioning adult in public life.

The bigger question isn’t “why aren’t people washing their hands?”

It’s “when did we stop caring whether we do?”

There are few rituals as universally expected — and as universally disregarded — as handwashing after using the toilet. It’s been ingrained into us since early childhood. Wash your hands. Use soap. Count to 20. Sing Happy Birthday twice. Dry them properly.

These weren’t just hygiene tips. They were foundational behaviors we were expected to absorb as proof of growing up. Just like saying “please” and “thank you,” washing your hands after the bathroom became one of the earliest forms of social compliance. But now that compliance is fraying.

Maybe it started with pandemic fatigue. Maybe it was chipped away by the normalization of anti-hygiene “rebel” content on social media — people who proudly declared they never wipe down gym equipment or who joked about never using hand sanitizer. Maybe it’s just the result of being constantly overwhelmed. When the mental load is heavy and time feels like it’s slipping, even basic self-care starts to feel like optional admin work.

But this isn’t just about germs on hands. It’s about something deeper unraveling. A kind of social unspoken etiquette that we used to rely on — and now, increasingly, can’t. Because if handwashing is optional, what else becomes optional in the quiet, private moments no one sees?

Let’s be honest: the public restroom is a weird place. It’s one of the few areas in modern life that straddles the line between deeply personal and deeply communal. You’re alone, but you’re surrounded. You’re doing something private, but within a system built for public access.

And that’s why the handwashing station — the sink, the soap dispenser, the mirror — has always functioned as a kind of behavioral checkpoint. It’s the part of the bathroom experience where your actions re-enter the public domain. Where someone else might see. Where judgment might kick in. It’s the invisible camera moment.

So when people stop washing their hands — even in that semi-visible zone — what’s really going on? It could be fatigue. It could be laziness. But more likely, it’s detachment. A slow decoupling from the shared rituals that once made society feel a little more stable, a little more courteous, a little more considerate.

When fewer people use turn signals on the road. When no one replaces the paper in the office printer. When we walk past litter and think “someone else will do it.” Skipping the sink becomes just another quiet form of opting out.

It’s worth acknowledging that handwashing is, for many people, a performance as much as it is a hygienic act. We’ve all witnessed the rinse-without-soap, the splash-and-dash, the finger-dab near the faucet before rushing out the door. These micro-acts aren’t about sanitation. They’re about optics. The performance of cleanliness. The suggestion that one has done the right thing — even if they haven’t.

This performative hygiene took center stage during the early months of COVID-19, when washing hands became a civic act. Posters, PSAs, videos — all designed to reinforce the importance of the act. But as the immediacy of the threat faded, so did the pressure to perform. The signs came down. The urgency dissolved. And for some, so did the habit.

Now, we’re in a strange in-between. The performance still exists, but only when we think someone’s watching. At home, alone, late at night — maybe not. At the airport, with strangers queuing behind us — maybe yes. Cleanliness, once internalized as a value, has reverted to a form of public theater.

The past few years brought us more than a global health crisis. They brought us “hygiene theater” — a term coined to describe the visible but largely superficial cleaning measures designed to reassure the public. Think over-sanitized surfaces in empty shops. Disinfectant foggers in hotel lobbies. Mask rules that were enforced inconsistently and signage that lingered long after mandates ended.

In that environment, handwashing became part of the same script. Something done more for appearances than actual impact. Something that could be skipped when no one was around.

But unlike spraying down tables or wiping airline seats, handwashing does work. It’s one of the simplest, cheapest, and most effective forms of disease prevention ever known to humans.

And yet it’s also one of the first to go when people feel overwhelmed, overstimulated, or over it. Which means the problem isn’t knowledge. Everyone knows they’re supposed to wash their hands. The problem is emotional bandwidth. Attention. Discipline. Social reinforcement. The problem is… us.

The study also revealed something else: a gender split. Women were more likely to report always washing their hands than men. The gender gap wasn’t massive — but it was consistent across age groups and countries. It tracks with other research around hygiene habits, domestic labor, and even scent marketing. Women are often socialized to associate cleanliness with morality. Men, meanwhile, are more likely to treat hygiene as task-based — something to do only if there’s a visible reason.

This creates tension in shared households. It shows up in parenting, too. Moms are more likely to enforce handwashing for kids. Dads are more likely to assume the lesson’s been learned.

Even in public restrooms, the cultural difference can be felt. More women’s restrooms have reminders. More men’s rooms — anecdotally — have fewer working soap dispensers.

But this isn’t about blaming one group. It’s about seeing how gendered our hygiene expectations have become — and how that shapes the rituals we perform, avoid, or quietly abandon.

Here’s where it gets even more uncomfortable: children mimic adult behavior. If we’re skipping the sink, if we’re faking the rinse, if we’re rushing out without soap — they notice.

And unlike us, they’re still forming their lifelong hygiene habits. Still mapping what matters and what can be skipped. Still absorbing what “normal” looks like. When parents tell kids to wash their hands, but don’t model it themselves, the hypocrisy registers. Maybe not immediately. But over time, it sets the tone.

It’s not just about health. It’s about what we teach our kids about responsibility. About respect. About existing in a shared space without leaving risk behind. Handwashing is small. But it’s also foundational. And when we model apathy, we pass it on.

Yes, it’s objectively gross not to wash your hands after using the toilet. But even if we could ignore the microbiological reality — even if no one got sick, no one got hurt — there’s still something deeper being eroded. Trust. Not the big kind of trust, like trusting someone with your money or your secrets. The small kind.

The trust that the person before you wiped down their gym machine. The trust that the commuter holding the subway pole washed their hands this morning. The trust that the stranger passing you a pen didn’t just skip the soap on their way out of the stall.

When enough people quietly opt out of shared rituals — even ones as small as handwashing — it chips away at the scaffolding of public life. The part of society that says “I’ll do the right thing, even when no one’s watching — because I assume you’ll do the same.” And when that’s gone, what’s left?

We’re not going to fix the handwashing crisis with more signs or guilt-tripping. Shame isn’t a sustainable motivator. Neither is fear. What we need is something quieter. A re-normalization of care. That might look like restoring visible soap stations in offices, cafes, and schools. It might look like parents narrating their handwashing so kids hear the why as much as the what. It might mean making time for small rituals again — even when they feel inconvenient.

Because public hygiene isn’t just about health. It’s about humanity. About signaling that we care enough to not leave behind invisible risks for the next person. Clean hands, clean conscience, clean slate.

So here we are, in 2025, still talking about something as basic as handwashing. Not because we’re obsessed with rules. Not because we’re trying to be perfect. But because this tiny habit — one that takes 20 seconds and costs nothing — reveals so much about the state of our collective attention. Maybe we’re tired. Maybe we’re rushing. Maybe we’re tuning out.

But we can still choose to notice. To pause. To wash. To remind ourselves — and each other — that some small things are worth doing even when no one’s watching. Because the truth is, someone always is.