Recently, I found my kids excitedly flipping through a summer catalog, eagerly circling the beach towels and swim gear they desired. It was a delightful moment until I noticed my son’s enthusiasm for boardshorts, which instantly sent my anxiety spiraling. My concern wasn’t about the cost of their new summer wardrobe—I knew they wouldn’t be getting everything marked—rather, it was about my own discomfort. Their eagerness to choose swimwear meant I would soon have to confront my own bathing suit dilemma.
I wholeheartedly support body positivity and encourage my kids, friends, and even strangers to embrace their bodies. I reject notions like “beach body” or “bikini body,” believing that all bodies deserve to be at the beach, regardless of shape or size. However, the well-meaning advice to “just put on the bathing suit” doesn’t resonate with everyone.
While it’s liberating to let go of superficial insecurities, true freedom feels unattainable when you’re struggling with body dysphoria. For me, the fear of bathing suits extends beyond weight; it’s rooted in a profound disconnection from my body. My discomfort ranges from mild agitation to deep depression.
As a nonbinary individual, I have female anatomy but don’t identify with either gender. I present in a masculine manner, which complicates my relationship with swimwear. My breasts are a constant source of distress, and when financially feasible, I plan to have surgery to remove them. The societal expectations tied to female features only amplify my discomfort.
Though I wear men’s clothing to minimize my breasts, swimwear presents a unique challenge. While I prefer boardshorts, I still need to address the upper half—public pools have their rules. Women’s swimsuits, designed for “women’s” bodies, often exacerbate my dysphoria. I try not to let my body parts define me, but bathing suits frequently force me into a gender binary that I don’t belong to.
In the past, I resorted to wearing sports bras or T-shirts while swimming, but thankfully, there are now companies creating swimwear for those with female anatomy who don’t align with traditional women’s suits. It’s clear there’s a demand for inclusive options that cater to butch women, transgender men, and nonbinary folks who want more than just bikinis or tankinis.
Currently, I opt for a compression top, essentially a snug sleeveless shirt, paired with boardshorts. While this combination offers some comfort and is a step toward inclusivity, it remains a challenge. The compression top is not only expensive but can also be cumbersome, taking time to dry and feeling heavy on hot days.
Being nonbinary is a source of pride, but societal perceptions heighten my sense of alienation. I often feel out of place in my own body, and clothing can help, but the thought of putting on a bathing suit is daunting. It’s a mental battle—convincing myself that I have every right to be who I am, even if it means donning a suit that doesn’t quite fit my identity.
Ultimately, wearing a bathing suit is a complex process for me. It’s about mental preparation, self-acceptance, and finding ways to cope after spending time in an environment where discomfort is heightened.
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In summary, navigating the world of swimwear is a profound challenge for many, particularly those who don’t fit neatly into traditional gender categories. The journey toward self-acceptance and comfort in one’s skin is ongoing, and it requires patience and understanding.