This Is Us

Stress Positions

Top surgery, public pools, ballet classes, and why 2022 feels like the worst possible moment to come back to my body.

Like “Jaws,” but for teenage boys with rage issues. Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

Here is my body in July, early afternoon, in a car headed from New York to Virginia: I am lying on my side in the half-reclined passenger seat, arms crossed over my chest. My right leg is bent, foot pressed against the car door; I’m rolling my ankle, trying to relieve an ache. My chest is flat, which it wasn’t last year, and my bicep, in the curve of my palm, feels like it’s gotten bigger.

This is my first time bringing my new body to Virginia. I’ve spent part of every summer here, at the same hotel, since I was about eight years old. It’s an odd feeling; my present body slipping into a space carved out by my previous ones, my child and adult selves lining up. Last time I was here, I hadn’t had top surgery yet. I’ll be able to swim with my shirt off, if I want to. I’ve packed t-shirts and rash guards, in case I don’t dare.

I don’t usually think about the distance between my old body and my new one. No — I think about it all the time, but only to ask myself whether I like the changes. Now I’m thinking about it as a liability. Bringing it here, to a place I’ve been so many times, means that someone might recognize me. Someone…