Cold Open

The pool was a neighborhood one, chlorine sharp in my nose, kids shrieking. I stood at the edge in a men’s rash guard and black leggings that ballooned with water when I moved. I felt like a diver about to descend—encased, not covered. A mom I recognized glanced over, then looked away fast. That glance said what I already knew: I didn’t belong in that water. I got in anyway, but I left humiliated. That was July 2017. On the drive home, I told myself I would never wear a makeshift swimsuit again. I’d been a registered nurse for almost a decade; if I could start an IV on a squirming toddler at three in the morning, I could figure out how to sew a swimsuit that let me swim with my kids without feeling like an astronaut.

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