Recently, my children were flipping through a swimwear catalog from a popular retailer, excitedly marking beach towels, water shoes, and swimsuits that caught their eye. Each of my three kids eagerly placed their initials next to the items they wanted. “Can we get these, please, Mom?” they asked. As my son pointed out a pair of boardshorts, a wave of anxiety washed over me. My heart raced—not because of the cost of new summer attire, as I knew they wouldn’t get everything they circled, but because their enthusiasm meant I would soon have to confront my own swimsuit dilemma.
I fully support body positivity and encourage my kids, friends, and even strangers to embrace their bodies as they are. I reject harmful notions like “beach body” or “bikini body.” All bodies deserve to be seen and celebrated at the beach. Yet, the sentiment that one should simply put on a swimsuit is easier said than done for many of us.
It’s true that we shouldn’t care about how others perceive us or what they choose to wear, and there’s a certain liberation in shedding superficial insecurities. But when you feel trapped in your own skin, true freedom seems elusive. My discomfort with swimsuits transcends mere concerns about weight—it’s rooted in a profound body dysphoria. I struggle to feel at home in my own body, grappling with feelings that range from mild irritation to deep depression.
As a nonbinary individual, I possess female anatomy but do not identify as female. I don’t see myself as male either, yet I often adopt a masculine presentation through my clothing and hairstyle. My breasts complicate matters, especially when it comes to swimwear. I have a strong aversion to my breasts, and when finances allow, I plan to undergo surgery to have them removed. While I’m not fond of my hips either, breasts are particularly feminine features that often lead others to misgender me, which adds to my discomfort.
I typically wear men’s clothing and do my best to minimize the visibility of my breasts, but finding a swimsuit that fits my identity is another challenge altogether. Although I favor boardshorts, I still need something to cover my upper body—public pools have their rules. Women’s swimsuits, while designed for “women’s” bodies, often exacerbate my dysphoria. I try to resist allowing my physical features to define me, but swimwear often forces me into a binary that feels incorrect. The last thing I want is to wear something that merely covers without offering support or concealment.
In the past, I opted for sports bras or even T-shirts when swimming. Thankfully, some companies now cater to individuals with female anatomy who prefer not to wear traditional women’s suits. There’s a growing demand for more inclusive swimwear options for butch women, transgender men, and nonbinary individuals, which reflects a shift in the market.
Currently, I wear a compression top—a snug, sleeveless shirt—under my boardshorts. While this option is the most comfortable I’ve found, I still face challenges. The top is expensive, and having only one makes it difficult to manage. “Alternative” options often signify being an outlier, and while I can navigate my identity at a school board meeting in men’s clothes, the public pool presents a different set of challenges. I stand out even more because I don’t wear what’s “expected” from a woman but still need to cover parts of my anatomy that might reveal my gender.
The compression top, though designed for swimming, is not the most comfortable garment. It’s thick, cumbersome to put on and take off, and takes ages to dry, especially on hot days. While I take pride in my nonbinary identity, the perceptions of others regarding my gender make me acutely aware of my discomfort in various spaces. Unlike my children, who find joy in choosing swimwear from the catalog, I feel a heavy weight at the thought of putting on a swimsuit.
Donning a swimsuit can be a monumental task. It requires mental preparation, convincing myself that others aren’t focused on me, and affirming my right to exist as I am, even if it means wearing a hybrid suit that reflects my hybrid gender identity. I can’t simply put on a swimsuit; it takes planning, preparation, and self-care afterward to cope with the discomfort of being in my body.
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Summary:
The experience of wearing a swimsuit is not universal; for many, including nonbinary individuals, it can be fraught with discomfort and dysphoria. Embracing body positivity is essential, but societal expectations and personal identity can complicate the experience of swimwear. Finding suitable options that align with one’s identity is crucial, and resources are available for those navigating these challenges.