Most kids went to Beach Week after high school graduation; I went to rehab. For 131 days, I couldn't swim, I couldn't exercise. I'd been a swimmer before I could walk. I'd been recruited by the women’s swim team at Harvard University, but I'd deferred a year. I'd been struggling with an eating disorder for two years. For the first time in my life, I had to learn how to listen to my body.

At the residential facility, I realized that I am transgender. I remember staring down at my baggy jeans and oversized t-shirt thinking to myself, “I’m not fat... What makes me dislike this body, then?” And it occurred to me: “Maybe I dislike it because it’s not the right gender—”

When the doctors let me swim again, I was allotted 30 minutes. I was so nervous that I’d forgotten everything — would I even remember how to put on my goggles? But when the chlorinated air filled my nose, I felt my entire body relax. I slipped into my (women’s) swim suit and ignored my reflection.

The suit wrapped my body in a familiar hug. I jumped in, and nothing else mattered. It was just me and the water. I swam. In the locker room afterward, I stripped and stared in the mirror. My breasts had grown and my body was curvier than it had ever been. I felt a rush of rage; I wanted to scream and pull everything off. The dysphoria was stealing the grin that swimming had gifted me. The swimming! I thought to myself. I just swam for 30 minutes and I haven’t swum in months. I had a sudden upwelling of love for my body — I had treated myself with angry malice the past several years and yet it still swam. It still walked. It still stood me up tall. It still loved me, even when I didn’t love it back.

Through the next couple of years as I transitioned — as I got the top surgery to remove my breasts and began the hormone therapy to masculinize my body — I held this love deep in my bones. I realized I could love my body and still want to change it.

Two years after entering residential treatment, I pulled on a men’s swim suit for the first time. I stared in terror at my nearly naked body — not fitting the suit quite right. But I held tight to the gratitude for all that my body did for me. When I dove into the pool for the first time wearing a Speedo, I felt the water rushing past my flat chest, creating sensations I’d never experienced before.

I thanked my lungs for remembering to take a breath every couple of strokes. I thanked my arms for being strong enough to pull me through the water.

I thanked my chest for healing from surgery. I thanked my legs for propelling me through the pool.

I thanked my mind for learning to listen to my heart. I thanked my heart for finding enough love to love myself.

I thanked my body for letting me live. I thanked myself for living.

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