There’s something magical about the way water can make you feel weightless, cool, and alive. For me, the allure of pools, rivers, and oceans has always been strong, but so has the anxiety that comes with exposing my body. As a trans man, the simple act of taking off my shirt has often felt like a declaration of identity, inviting stares, whispers, and sometimes even transphobic remarks.
Growing up in Texas, the pool was my sanctuary from the scorching summer heat. The YMCA pools were my second home, where I could feel weightless and calm. But the journey to get there was fraught with anxiety. By the time I was twelve, I had crafted my own butch swimwear a T-shirt, stretched-out sports bra, knee-length basketball shorts, and a latex hat. This ensemble allowed me to blend in, to make people forget about my gender. But the constant adjustment of my shirt and the envy I felt watching shirtless guys enjoy the water were constant reminders of my discomfort.
Top Surgery: A Path to Freedom
Once I was old enough and had secured a job with trans-inclusive insurance I saved up for top surgery. The cost, even with insurance, ranged from $1,000 to $5,000. The recovery period was a mix of excitement and anxiety. Every day for a month, I changed the bandages over my scars, hoping for lighter lines and more ‘natural’ nipples. I wanted my chest to look cis like those muscley, unclockable trans guys whose scars were barely visible.
My recovery was not without its challenges. I had a job that allowed me a week off to heal, and three people willing to take care of me. Yet, I felt self-conscious about anyone waiting on me hand and foot. This stubbornness led to one of my scars turning into a keloid which was disappointing and scary. What would become of my shirtless swimming plans now?
The First Shirtless Swim
Shortly after I was cleared to swim post-surgery, I headed to a local cold springs, feeling both giddy and nervous. The day was different from any other. There were hundreds, maybe even a thousand folks at the springs. I had lopsided scars and sensitive nipples, two new additions to my bodily anxiety. Despite this, I arrived shirtless and ready to splash around in the beautifully cold water.
The stares were immediate and intense. Though no one said anything, their eyes screamed other. In an allegedly progressive city, the disgust, surprise, and curiosity about my chest were palpable. I started to put my shirt back on, accepting that I might never have a shirtless swim day.
And then, a moment of connection. As goosebumps dotted my skin, I saw a short brown guy with long, red scars and pink nipples. He had hairy legs, a five-o’clock shadow, and a pimpled face—just a few months on T, I figured. We didn’t speak; he just nodded at me and smiled as I walked by. That simple gesture changed everything. I looked around and realized: I’m not the only one. There were fat folks, queer folks, and folks with dotted skin; folks with wheelchairs and their abled friends. There were bodies that were also left off of those ‘summer beach body’ ads, including trans folks like me.
Embracing Scars and Community
Hitting the pool now is much better than it was when I was a kid. Through therapy and having solid friends, I’ve learned that my scars, which tell the world that I’m trans, are nothing to be ashamed of. I can’t change the bigotry of others, but I’m always in control of how I personally see myself. The thoughts of getting procedures to lighten my scars or even out my skin tone still come up, but I know they are just thoughts that I can let pass me by.
I don’t need an even-toned, unmarked body to be beautiful and worth a day at the pool. The flesh bag I’m in gets me up every morning and keeps all my faculties working properly. That’s all I need. Being friends with other trans people who love the water has also been incredibly helpful. Swimming with a group of Black trans folks recently was a beautiful experience, seeing us all with our different variations of brown, wading in a local river.
Since my first day out swimming with my top surgery scars, I try to offer the same confidence that that trans guy gave me. Every time I see a girl/femme with a bulge, a guy/person with my same lines on their chest, or a baddie of any gender with lines all across their belly or dark spots on their thighs or a disability that means they need more time to get to the pool, I smile, nod my head, and look them in the eyes. I hope that this communicates that I see and appreciate them for doing the brave thing that I’m doing too: insisting that we can also claim a spot under the sun.
In the pool, in the courts, and in our homes, we deserve to cool down and splash just like everyone else.
