Clutching my battered, rainbow-striped raft, I shiver in excitement as another wave forms before me. I jump headfirst into the crest, convinced that I am halfway to surfing. My hair frizzes and frays in the coastal breezes, whipped free as I plunge it through yet another wave. The glaring sun overhead tans the skin on my bare shoulders and makes the hairs on my bony shins glimmer as the water rises and recedes. Feet unencumbered by shoes, I feel the minnows darting close to my toes. I am free in the surf. Only flimsy spandex comes between my body and the ocean. My soaking swimsuit clings to my ten year-old frame as I, exhausted, fling myself on a towel by my mother. It dries in the afternoon sun, collecting salt in the creases.

– – –

Locked in the bathroom, I gaze at myself in the mirror. I pull at the front of my swimsuit, trying to mask some of the cleavage. Turning to the side, I smooth the ruched fabric and tug up the waistband of my swim bottoms to flatten my midsection. My thighs are glaringly white against the coral stripes of the bottoms, their thickness comically contrasting the knobbiness of my feet. My husband gently knocks at the door, “Christie? Are you almost ready?” I know they’re waiting for me, but I can’t stomach letting someone else see me like this. “Go on without me,” I call, “I’ll be out soon.” Shrugging on a cotton button-down, I keep covered under the guise of skin protection.

– – –

I’m not sure when my hatred of swimsuits developed, but I know I’m not unique in my distaste. I’ve heard complaints from both genders about swimsuit season and the anxiety it produces. Aside from the way it makes me feel about my body, the swimsuit issues are detrimental to my social interactions as well. I shy away from almost every water-based recreational event, whether it be in pools, at water parks, on boats, or by the ocean. Instead of splashing around with my nieces and nephews, I curl up under towels and half-hearted excuses on the sidelines.

Which brings me back to oceans. Trips to the beach used to be my favorite family vacation. I would lose myself in the rhythm of the waves, forgetting about my siblings and parents on the shore. Swimsuits were simply a means to get in the water, a blip on my journey from hotel room to the sea. I wore them ragged, until the bottom sagged with pilled fabric from rough pool floors, the elastic straps hung lifeless off my frame, and the once-bright material faded from exposure to the sun. My suits have never been in more pristine shape than they are now, neatly tucked away in my closet season after season. I’ve visited oceans since my adolescence, but I haven’t swam in one in over ten years. Embarrassingly, one of my favorite things is so easily trumped by my body shame.

As much as I’ve thought about it, I still don’t have answers. I know it’s all in my head. I know I’m the one most aware of how I look in a swimsuit and that this anxiety is rippling into missed interactions. As much as I know, my understanding still does not change my emotions, which means I have yet to change my behavior.

– – –

This morning, I cautiously waded into the receding foam of the Gulf of Guinea. Surrounded by my friends, I still couldn’t bring myself to wear my swimsuit, so I only went in up to my knees. As my skirt grazed the tide, I felt the longing of my ten year-old self: the unbridled yell that wanted to release out of me as I threw off my cover-up and leapt into the open embrace of the ocean. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I’ve resolved to do better, but I held myself back. Self-consciousness trumped self-fulfillment, and I kept my distance.

– – –

What inhibitions stop you from doing the things you love? If you’ve been able to overcome it, how?