You think you’re brave because you’ve run a 5K, spoken at a work meeting without sweating through your shirt, or made it through all 47 of your child’s sixth-grade band concerts?
No.
True courage is willingly walking into a well-lit dressing room with a handful of spandex swimsuits and the blind optimism that one of them might fit your body, your budget, and your barely-hanging-on dignity.
There was a time when swimsuit shopping was mildly annoying, sure — but it didn’t feel personal. Back then, I’d walk into a store, grab three suits, try them on under flickering fluorescent lights, shrug at the fit, and move on with my day. Sometimes I didn’t even try them on. I’d just think, “Eh, close enough.” Then I’d cannonball into a pool with friends, half my hair still wrapped up in a giant messy bun, and not once did I stand there tugging at the hem or triple-checking if anything was riding up where it shouldn’t be.
I didn’t realize how good I had it. I miss that girl sometimes — my young adult years, blissfully unaware that my body would change and that one day I’d stand in a fitting room half-naked, half-panicking, half-laughing at how ridiculous this whole ritual is.
Somewhere between college and career changes, babies and burritos, pandemics and perimenopause, everything shifted. Not just physically — though yes, some parts have relocated without permission and others have set up permanent residence where they never used to be — but mentally, too.
I don’t walk into a fitting room now like a carefree twenty-something. I walk in like a detective examining evidence at the scene of a crime: suspicious, defensive, prepared to be emotionally ambushed.
And it is an ambush, isn’t it?
The mirrors. The harsh overhead lighting that highlights every freckle you didn’t know you had and every bump you wish you didn’t. The hangers that squeak and snap. The sales clerk chirping, “How’s it going in there?” through the door when you’re currently contorted like a Cirque du Soleil reject trying to get your left arm out of a criss-cross back.
Clothes shopping in general has become a full-contact sport, but swimsuit shopping? That’s varsity level. It’s already bad enough trying on jeans that gap weirdly at the waist, or dresses that require you to fold up like origami just to zip up. But when something gets stuck — when that tankini decides you and your shoulder are now legally bound together for eternity? That’s a new level of panic.
You haven’t known true fear until you’re wedged halfway into a one-piece that decided to roll itself into a tourniquet around your torso trapping your arm with it. There is a moment — a very specific, frozen-in-time moment — where you genuinely wonder if you’ll have to text your spouse for rescue or chew your way out like a coyote caught in a bear trap.
“I can’t die like this,” I thought once, mid-struggle in a fitting room, arms over my head, tangled in a clearance tankini with molded cups that could double as riot gear.
“This is not how my obituary should read.”
Eventually, by the grace of all that is holy and the flexibility I didn’t know I still had, I freed myself. Barely. I tried on seventeen more options. Some cut too high, some sagged too low, one had the sheer audacity to include fringe.
Fringe.
Who is that for? What is it supposed to hide? And how do you deal with the feeling of little worms crawling on your legs every time you walk? If I’m paying $45 for four square inches of swim fabric, it better have magical powers — and fringe is not that power.
I didn’t cry, though I thought about it.
Instead, I made prolonged eye contact with my own reflection. Me, standing there, sporting compression lines on my thighs from the last failed try-on, hair static-clinged to my face, deodorant smears on my upper arm, whispering, “We’ve been through worse.” And we have.
We absolutely have.
In my younger years, I wore a light blue two-piece swimsuit with black polka dots and a little ruffle. It was cute. Bold, even. I was finally feeling brave enough — ready to join the cool girls who didn’t wear t-shirts over their swimsuits like I usually did. I went down the waterslide, feeling proud, almost powerful.
It was one of those narrow plastic slides — the kind with a tiny water hose barely zip-tied to the top to keep it slippery. Only… it wasn’t.
My thighs, already bigger than most of the girls around me, inadvertently cut off the water supply halfway down. Which meant the slide went from “slippery summer fun” to “melting Tupperware on a car dashboard” real quick.
I came to a dead stop right in the middle — legs squeaking against the dry plastic, slowly melting into the slide like grilled cheese on a sidewalk.
There was no lifeguard intervention. No reset button. No graceful way out.
So in a heroic act of desperation, I cleverly launched myself — from a sitting position — straight off the middle of the slide. And in doing so, I executed the most awkward belly flop in the history of belly flops.
It was not elegant. It was not quiet.
It was more of a painful “thwack” than a splash announcing my entrance to God and country.
And as if that weren’t enough, I came all the way up from the water to discover that half my swimsuit had decided to peace out during the landing.
The ties had come completely undone from my top. One piece of it was clinging to my waist, the other floating away like it wanted no part in the disaster unfolding.
I dove under the water, mortified.
And for a split second, I genuinely wondered if I could just hold my breath until the pool officially closed.
Because resurfacing? Facing the friends I’d just tried to impress? The horror of trying to cover myself while pretending I wasn’t spiraling inside? That felt harder than drowning.
But I came up. Embarrassed, red-faced, panicking — and my friends were there.
Fumbling, whispering, laughing a little too loudly, they helped tie me back together.
I survived.
But I never forgot.
Not the slow-motion horror. Not the humiliation. Not the feeling of my legs burning into that slide. Not the look of shock from the pool guests who definitely got more than they paid for that day.
The years passed. My body changed. My relationship with dressing rooms became less of a casual errand and more of a gladiator event.
Just when I was about to give up — ready to toss the suits aside and resign myself to being the mom on the beach or at the pool who stays under the umbrella in a T-shirt and bike shorts — I found it.
The one.
The mythical creature.
The unicorn of swimwear.
It fit. It was comfortable. It was plum in color, had simple ruching, and tummy control panels. It didn’t scream “I’ve given up,” nor did it whisper “trying too hard.” It was just enough.
It was on sale, I had Kohl’s cash AND a gift card. And for a brief moment, standing there under lights that could expose your deepest secrets, I felt oddly victorious.
I stood in the checkout line, clutching my prize like a warrior returning from battle. Other shoppers flipped through clearance racks, blissfully unaware that right there — right in front of them — a woman was silently celebrating the rarest of miracles: a spandex blend that did not betray her thighs, her self-esteem, or her bank account.
And in that moment, I thought about how much this silly ritual mirrors the rest of life.
We’re constantly trying things on — roles, expectations, other people’s opinions — blaming ourselves when they don’t fit. We think, “Well, if I just squeeze a little harder, maybe it’ll work.” We contort, we tug, we twist ourselves up just to prove we can “make it work.”
Meanwhile, the tag clearly says it was never designed to fit in the first place.
Sometimes it’s not you. It’s the suit.
Today, I’m choosing to show up anyway.
Not because I’ve unlocked some magical portal to total self-love, but because I’m tired of letting a piece of spandex determine whether or not I get in the water. Whether or not I play. Whether or not I show up.
I know it’s tempting to opt out. I know that voice in your head says, “Just stay on the towel, keep your cover-up on, skip the pool photos.”
But do you know what your kids remember?
They remember you being there.
They remember you laughing when the wave knocked you over.
They remember you cannonballing like you’re still twenty-two with knees that don’t betray you.
They remember your presence.
Not your perfect angles.
I’ve shown up for job interviews I wasn’t sure I deserved.
I’ve shown up for school meetings where I wasn’t sure if I’d cry or fight someone.
I’ve shown up for goodbyes and graduations, for family photos and funerals, for Tuesday mornings that hit like a freight train.
This is no different.
There’s always that tug-of-war between confidence and insecurity. One day you’re feeling brave, the next you catch a glimpse of your side view and you’d rather stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to — (thanks, TLC) — instead of wading into water that might require you to be seen exactly as you are.
But here’s the thing:
I don’t love swimsuit shopping.
I don’t always love what I see in the mirror.
But I do love being present.
I love the idea that my kids might remember me in the water more than they remember me hiding behind a towel. I love laughing at my own awkwardness, my own lumps and bumps and stretch marks that are basically the souvenirs of a life I’ve actually lived.
That swimsuit moment was never really about the swimsuit.
It was about permission.
Permission to show up anyway.
Permission to let people see me exactly as I am — soft around the edges, arms that wave when I do, thighs that applaud when I run.
Permission to belong, even when I don’t feel perfectly packaged.
So here’s what I want to say, in case you’re standing in your own version of that awful fitting room — literal or otherwise.
Whether you’re wrestling with a swimsuit, a new job, a relationship, parenting doubts, or that one story you’re scared to write —
Get in the water.
Not because you’ve got it all together.
Not because you feel ready.
Not because you feel flawless.
But because the water’s wild and you deserve to be in it anyway.
You don’t have to look perfect.
You don’t have to feel fearless.
You just have to show up.
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
One hand clutching the towel you’ll fling aside at the last second.
The other one ready to splash whoever needs splashing first.
Get in the water. Life doesn’t wait.
Because there’s laughter waiting out there.
Cannonballs. Inside jokes. Salt in your hair.
Poolside playlists and dripping popsicles.
The sound of someone calling your name just to say,
“Watch me!” before they jump.
There are memories to be made —
and they don’t care what size you are
or how runway ready you are.
They’re not filtering you.
They’re not judging the angle.
They just want you — present, playful, real.
The version of you who doesn’t sit on the sidelines.
The version who laughs too loudly,
dives too deep,
and shows up with sunscreen smudged on her nose and joy in her eyes.
So climb the ladder.
Shake off the shame.
Ignore the voice that says to sit this one out.
And make the splash anyway.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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