“Leaving on the 45!” 

I’m exhausted already and we’re only 5 minutes into the main set. It’s 5:45 am on a brisk Thursday. We’re doing an NVo2 set (to this day I still do not know what this meant), and I’m supposed to maintain a 145HR. With my body in the water, my mind is elsewhere. “Maybe I’m transgender” isn’t the most wonderful thing to think about while witnessing a constant string of stomach turning articles and conversation. Feelings that I couldn’t verbalize to myself, let alone others. Painted nails were enough to get glares, to imagine a new name made me nauseous. How would I afford it? Would my parents accept me? Would I be taken seriously? All of these questions bubbling over, attempting to hide the biggest one beneath it all- “Could I be trans and an athlete? Or would I have to choose?”

Swimming was core to my existence ever since I was a kid. My mother had gone through a spell of putting me in every sport possible to see what clicked. I barely paid attention in baseball chasing butterflies in the outfield, I fell asleep playing goalie in soccer, and God forbid she attempted to put me in flag football. Nothing was clicking for me, but she hadn’t lost hope just yet. Through her “research” (scrolling through endless Facebook posts) she’d read that one article about ADHD kids doing well with swimming, so she tossed me to the local team. I wasn’t particularly into it, but it was something I always did. I enjoyed how quiet the world felt while I was underwater, so I kept with it. As time continued, I moved a couple teams, and ended up seeing this sport as “the” thing about me. My social media was all related to swimming, my hobbies were all related to being an athlete, I was a swimmer before I was my own name.

I went through a few coaches, some good, some bad, all of them having an impact on how I formed as a swimmer. Each of them had some sort of memorable statement- a signature quote- but one sentence stands above them all though. My favorite coach was a character to say the least. Even at 5 in the morning his energy was through the roof. The man spent the practice dancing while still keeping us running through the set (and God were those sets a fresh hell). Most of all, he loved to talk- and he had one philosophy he’d bring up constantly. It was simply this concept about being your “number one self”; it’s cheesy, it’s cliche, but it’s true. If you ever tried to make a snarky comment toward him, he’d shrug and reply with something around that. He was sure that all of us could be our number one selves, but who was my number one self?

This number one self idea spun in my head for a bit. I talked about it with my therapist and a few people that I trusted. I was able to explore in privacy which I appreciated a lot, and he was one of the few people I’d trust with seeing some of the results. I’d shown him the makeup that my girlfriend at the time had done for me, and he was amazed. It was different though- I was just a guy who liked makeup, that’s what I’d told myself and everyone around me. I didn’t even know how to do it myself, it was just a thing I let her do. Anything to push those thoughts to the bottom of the pool. Swimming, running, anything I could to keep these thoughts away for just a bit longer. The thing is, no matter how hard you fight the reality of your identity and the thoughts around it, they always float back to the top.

Five years before these thoughts bubbled to the surface, North Carolina pushed fourth the now infamous HB2 into effect. I was 13 at the time. Two years earlier I’d gotten to witness gay marriage become legal in my state, and now I witnessed national outcry at a pushback for queer rights. It made me feel safe and hopeful for my future, for when I became an adult. I was a queer kid growing up in a time of progress, that I could truly be whoever I wanted. So why was I paralyzed at nearly 18? I woke up before the sun was up almost every day for the past 6 years, I took classes way outside my comfort zone and pushed my body to its absolute limit, so why did this one single question make my foundation crumble to dust? I’d never had an issue standing out before, but this was different.

For the longest time, I’d solidified that my “number one self” was my identity as a swimmer. I swam butterfly and backstroke, I loved the 200 butterfly, and I enjoyed morning practices- that encompassed me perfectly. Now I had to figure out what whirlpool of feelings I’d just opened. I wanted to be this person, but I didn’t want to sacrifice swimming- I couldn’t, it would be sacrificing myself. So I sat with it, I journaled, and I decided on a flimsy compromise. I’d continue to swim in this halfway state. I was Nora, but I had to teeter a fine line to ensure I could still swim. I felt that my sacrifice was worth it, I had a goal in mind and I planned to achieve it. I didn’t want to continue swimming because I was good at it, I wanted to continue swimming because I enjoyed it. It was my everything.

I loved talking about it, coaching it, existing with it. I’d met someone through a local pool that I trained at on my own. He’d shown interest in it and I kept giving him tips- before I knew it he started swimming the same sets as me on the same team as me. I wanted everyone to like swimming in the way I did, and seeing him become a part of my sport meant the world. But that friend ultimately would encapsulate this pit in my stomach; People liked me before the transition, but I’d see what they thought online, conversations they’d float between eachother- statements that felt so ill to me but mundane to them, because I was still him in their eyes, but I didn’t know who I was anymore. There was one solution: run away from it all, hide until college, and finally be me.

After the endless waiting, I finally was there- I finally made it to my college. I was 400 miles away from home, and truly got to live as a new person. I was convinced this would be a perfect solution, but social media still continued to be terrible for my mental health. I couldn’t help but consume anti-trans content, it was everywhere around me. Even posting against anti-trans politicians meant I’d still see the anti-trans rhetoric. I’d see the headlines, the articles, the controversy around who I was- who any trans person was in athletics. I even witnessed people who’d known about my transition post things that directly went against my existence. I nearly burst into tears one morning seeing the friend who I had brought to my team posting hateful things against trans athletes. I wanted to call him, blow up his phone with a dozen texts telling him how upset I was at this, how I thought he was better than that, but I didn’t. I simply and quietly removed him from my life like it felt he had removed me from his thoughts by agreeing with vile politicians.  It kept me pushed into that box of conformity. I’d just use Nora as a nickname, sure. This is a phase, maybe. Am I a monster for wanting this, did I just want to do it for some advantage? 

So I walked this line, I followed the rules, and I locked myself away from starting hormones until I graduated college to avoid dealing with possible harassment from collegiate athletic organizations. With a shabbily put together solution, I’d given myself a new problem. I didn’t feel valid enough to be in spaces for women athletes, hell I felt sheepish to even be in the women's team group chat. I had to have a friend ask for me, and I was immediately met with warmth, “oh, why aren’t you in the group chat? Let me add you- oh and we’re doing a women’s team event next week, you should come!” The reception stunned me. I wasn’t “invading” a space I didn’t belong in, I had been invalidating myself from being with a group I deserved to be with. My consumption of social media feeds sunk me into this belief that my team did not want me there, despite never showing any reason for this to be the case. This dysphoria of feeling socially incorrect wasn’t the one I’d the most about, but was one I’d grown quite familiar with.

That’s not to say that I hadn’t had my constant reminders of my other dysphorias- nothing rougher than hating your body and competing in the sport with the smallest uniform. I liked practicing, I liked being at meets, but I had fallen out of the love of swimming because I realized how much I hated my body. I was socially with the women's team, yet I trained with the mens. It wasn’t anything I or anyone else could change, it was just something I had to come to terms with, and I had. It was definitely a lot easier when I never felt that my status on the team was attached to the side of the team I scored for. The primary feeling wasn’t my physical dysphoria though, it was how I felt alone.

I wasn’t particularly isolated, I went to team events and hangouts all the time! It was more that I was the only trans woman on the team. Despite what the media was forcibly cramming down our throats and in our heads, there aren’t a lot of trans people in athletics. There are tons who are like me, and had to make sacrifices to who they are to exist in athletics to fly under the radar. It wasn’t because they were afraid that swapping teams or starting testosterone would give them an advantage, it was because even if they placed second to last, they would still be highlighted for the one person they beat.

Often it paralyzed me at meets. I found myself having breakdowns I couldn’t explain to my teammates because they couldn’t understand where it was coming from. I had to always change before we got there. There were even a handful of times I heard transphobic remarks from other teams. Luckily I’d been supported and protected always. I had a team that encouraged me to fit into who I was, and to be myself- at least as close as I could be.

So I took time and found ways to push my identity outward, even when I couldn’t express it the way I wanted to. Makeup is one of the most wonderful ways to perform outwardly. I’d always pack an eyeshadow kit and my glitter in the back compartment of my bag, never went to a meet without it. I’d toss on some glitter before my races for fun but things evolved into a game of sorts- could I get glitter on my teammates? Would a handshake from me leave glitter with you? Who knows! It brought a sort of silver lining to the weird feeling I had to endure- and in more ways than one. Luckily in most spaces people would see the “man” with glittery makeup on and at least toss me a “they” as a nice little treat. Sure it was the bare minimum, but it kept me going. Everything I did ultimately was just that- something to push me along for a little longer, letting me go against the current for another week.

These sacrifices I made didn’t make me a martyr of some sorts, but no one should have to make sacrifices to their authenticity to pursue something they love. To sacrifice time, effort, energy- that’s normal. That’s what athleticism is. But to sacrifice authenticity- not because of some true rule breaking proof, but because the harassment would be endless? That is not athleticism. Trans athletes work just as hard as any other athlete, yet are treated like they gain the system. The system does not work to benefit us more than you, it works to push us out.

Thanks for reading! It’s been a bit since I did an article, and starting fresh & redoing every article was something I was looking forward to.