SEASON 3 S/S '26 - The Swimsuit Drawer
00:00:15 Intro: Hi, I'm Melanie and this is UNfashioned a podcast about unraveling what no longer fits and rewearing what was always real. Last week, we stood together in the closet and slowly peeled away the layers that we had been carrying long after the season had changed. One by one, we took off the shoes that had carried me through difficult terrain, stepped out of the jeans that represented so many versions of who I had been, and folded away the sweatshirt that had reminded me of my own strength. By the end of the story, all that remained was the quiet feeling of the cool air against my skin and the realization that maybe the season had been waiting for me all along. I began going through the closet, searching for my summer clothes. I sorted out piles of shorts, tops, summer dresses, and lightweight pants. I found things that I hadn't worn in years. What should I do with them, keep them or toss? This was going to take some time. But as I stood there looking around my closet, I realized that there was one place I hadn't touched in quite a while. It was my swimsuit drawer. I think every closet has one. It may not actually be a drawer. It could be a shelf, a storage bin tucked beneath the bed, or a forgotten beach bag hanging in the back of the closet. Wherever it is, it has a way of waiting quietly all winter, hidden beneath the sweaters and scarves and heavier clothes, until the first warm day arrives and reminds us that summer is no longer something we're looking forward to. It's already here. There's something different about reaching for a swimsuit than there is about reaching for any other piece of clothing. I don't hesitate before slipping on a pair of jeans or choosing a t shirt. But every summer, when I slide open the drawer for the first time, I find myself pausing. It's as if opening it means more than simply choosing what suit to wear. It brings back years of summer memories, both good and bad. It feels like opening thoughts, about events and conversations of summers past. Inside that drawer are pieces of fabric, but they're also pieces of memory. Some swimsuits remind me of long summer afternoons floating quietly on an inner tube beneath the summer sky. There are many faded Speedos that carried me through countless summer practices, miles of laps, swim team competitions, and the years of teaching children how to swim at our local YMCA. They were too old to be worn, but too full of memories to be thrown away. There were swimsuits that reminded me of family beach vacations, afternoons at the pool with my daughter, and summers that seem to stretch on forever. There are swimsuits that carried me through post-pregnancy, swimsuits I bought because I loved them, and others I bought because I hoped that they somehow would change the way I felt about myself. The funny thing is that swimsuits are one of the smallest garments in our closet, yet they often carry the greatest emotional weight. They ask us to uncover what we've spent the rest of the year comfortably hiding. They expose our skin to the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the water, and sometimes to the opinions we imagine everyone else is thinking. They have a way of making us believe that being seen is somehow more dangerous than being covered. I wasn't always worried about wearing swimsuits. In fact, there was a time when they meant something entirely different. As children, we didn't seem to care what we wore to swim. It could be new, old, hand-me-down or printed with our favorite cartoon characters. We didn't care how we looked in our suits either. We just had a suit to swim in. But as we got older, how we look became important, especially to girls. We began trying on suits to be sure we looked good enough before we bought them, and hoped everyone else would agree with our choices. I began to think about the new swimsuits I know I definitely need to buy for this season. They'll need to be comfortable. They'll need to compliment my figure. And most of all, I have to find suits that will make me feel attractive enough to eliminate the worry of what other people might be saying about me. I often wish I could go back to the time when the mirror wasn't the final judge of which swimsuit was the right one for me. Before swimsuits became something I dreaded pulling out of the drawer each summer. Back to when suits were simply part of my everyday life in the soothing, calm Water. Back then, I didn't remember standing in front of the mirror wondering how I looked. I remember wondering how far I could swim. I wondered if I could make it to the other end of the pool without taking a breath. I wondered if I could shave another second off my race time, or finally perfect my flip turn. My shoulders, my legs, and my confidence grew stronger. My body wasn't something I spent time criticizing. It was simply the tool that allowed me to do what I loved. There was something wonderfully freeing about the water. The moment I slipped beneath the surface, the noise of the world disappeared. The water didn't care what I looked like. It didn't care whether my stomach was flat or whether my thighs touched. It didn't compare me to anyone else. It simply held me the same gentle way it held every other swimmer who climbed into the pool. Looking back now, I realized how lucky I was. For years, I wore swimsuits without ever questioning whether I belonged in them. It wasn't a test or a judgment. It wasn't anything I needed to learn. It was simply the uniform for doing something I loved. It carried me through the summer days that seemed like they would last forever. Standing here in my closet after all these years later, I reached for the drawer and let my fingers run across the familiar fabric. Bright colors and faded elastic. Tiny reminders of summers gone by. I pulled one out and held it in my hands. It was still just a swimsuit. It looked the way it always did. It hadn't changed. So when did I?
00:07:45 The Mirror: I stood there for a moment. The swimsuit still in my hands. It wasn't any different than the dozens of swimsuits I had owned throughout my life. It was still just a few small pieces of fabric stitched together. The fabric and the cut hadn't changed. It hadn't suddenly become more revealing than the faded swimsuits I had worn through the years of swim practice and the summer swims. It's still just a swimsuit. I slipped it on and walked towards the mirror. For a long moment, I simply stood there, looking at my reflection. I wasn't trying to admire myself, and I wasn't intentionally looking for flaws. I was trying to remember when this moment had become so complicated. As a little girl, I don't remember standing in front of the mirror before heading to the pool. I just remember throwing a towel over my shoulders, grabbing my goggles, and running out the door because I couldn't wait to get in the water. The swimsuit was never the destination. It was simply what I wore to get to my destination. Somewhere between those carefree summers and the woman standing in front of the mirror now, something had shifted. It happened so quietly that I can't tell you exactly when it began. There wasn't one defining moment or cruel comment that changed everything for me. Instead, little by little, I stopped seeing my body as something that carried me through life and started seeing it as something that needed to be evaluated. Every summer, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, just like this one, pulling at the fabric, adjusting the straps, turning sideways, wondering if this was the way it was supposed to look. As I looked at my reflection, I noticed the familiar things in my eyes always seemed to find first the softness around my stomach that hadn't been there when I was twenty. The freckles scattered across my shoulders from the years spent in the sun, and the scars and lines and places where time had quietly left its mark. For years those were things I believed I was supposed to notice. But standing there that morning, after peeling away so many other layers, I found myself looking a little harder. I realized that every mark on my body had arrived honestly. This body had carried me through thousands of laps in the pool and hours of swim fun with friends. The body that had grown and delivered a daughter. It had become stronger through the years of CrossFit. It had endured heartbreak, rebuilt a life, and continued showing up even when life felt unimaginably heavy. The reflection looking back at me wasn't perfect. It was experienced. For the first time in a long time. I stopped asking myself how my body looked in a swimsuit. Instead, I found myself thanking my body for all the versions of my life it had carried me through swimsuits and all.
00:11:17 The Water: I turned away from the mirror, picked up my towel and headed outside. The warm summer air greeted me the moment I stepped out the door. It brushed against my bare shoulders in a way that felt completely different than it had just a few minutes earlier. Standing in front of the mirror, I had been so aware of my body. Out here, surrounded by sunshine and the sounds of summer. I simply was aware of the day the birds were singing. The breeze gently stirred the leaves in the trees. Somewhere in the distance I could hear children laughing. It was like an ordinary summer morning, yet somehow everything inside me felt calmer and quieter. I walked towards the pool and slipped into it slowly. The cool water wrapped itself around my legs as I eased the rest of my body beneath the surface. The noise of my mind seemed to soften. The same body I had been critically studying in the mirror a few minutes ago now felt almost weightless. Suspended in the water. I wasn't thinking about how I looked. I was thinking about how familiar this felt. Water has always felt like home to me. Some of my happiest memories have happened in water. Long afternoon swimming laps until my body was tired and relaxed. Teaching children to trust the water instead of fearing it. And floating for hours in a pool with nothing but the sounds of birds overhead and gentle waves beneath me. Water has carried every version of me. From the little girl who couldn't wait to jump into the deep end to the woman I am today. As I floated there, I realized something I had forgotten. The water had never cared what I looked like. It has never asked how much I weighed. It has never noticed the freckles scattered across my shoulders and the scars on my body, or the places where time had gently reshaped me. It has never compared me to another woman at the beach, or asked whether my swimsuit fit the way it did ten years ago. Every time I stepped into the water, it has always welcomed me exactly as I am. I wonder how different our lives might feel if we could look at ourselves like the way the water does not as bodies to be judged, corrected or compared, but simply as bodies that carry us through life. Bodies that swim, float, laugh, hug, work, heal, and love. Bodies that tell stories. Bodies that have earned every mark they've collected along the way. For years, I thought my confidence came through learning to like what I saw in the mirror. But maybe confidence isn't found in the mirror at all. Maybe it's found in the moments like this when we are fully present, fully alive, and so immersed in living that we forget to judge ourselves altogether. As I floated quietly beneath the summer sky, I wasn't thinking about my swimsuit at all. I was simply grateful to be in the water again.
00:14:59 Drying In The Sun: Eventually, I climbed out of the water and sat down at the edge of the deck. The swimsuit that had felt almost weightless in the water suddenly clung to me again. Every movement reminded me it was there. It held onto my skin heavier than it had before I stepped into the pool. Tiny drops of water slipped from my hair onto my shoulders and quietly made their way down to the ground. I didn't reach for a towel. I simply sat there enjoying the warmth of the sun against my face and the gentle breeze that had barely caught my attention earlier, now slowly beginning to do its work. Without me thinking about it, the water started to disappear. The straps of my suit became lighter and the fabric softened. My skin no longer felt cold. Healing has always reminded me of that. When we're hurting, we often want relief immediately. We want to rush through grief, disappointment and heartbreak, uncertainty or loss as quickly as possible. We look for something to fix it, to distract us, or to make us feel like ourselves again. But healing rarely works that way. More often than not, healing asks us to stay exactly where we are, to let time do what only time can do. To trust that warmth has a way of reaching places that once felt permanently cold. The sun doesn't force the swimsuit to dry. It simply waits minute by minute, without fanfare or urgency, it transforms what felt heavy into something light again. Looking back over my life, I can think of so many seasons that felt like I was stepping out of the water soaking wet. Divorce, starting over, learning who I was outside of the roles I worn for so many years. Even writing this podcast. None of those seasons healed overnight. They simply needed time, patience, and enough light to slowly become something I could carry without feeling weighed down. As I sat there, I realized the swimsuit hadn't changed, but I had. Not because I had become someone new. But because I had allowed myself enough time in the warmth to become myself again. Sometimes healing isn't something we accomplish. Sometimes it's something we allow.
00:17:55 Listener Reflection: Before we close today, I'd like to invite you to think about your own swimsuit drawer. Not the one in your closet, but the one you carry inside yourself. Is there a part of you that's been waiting for the "right" body before you fully enjoy this season? Have you convinced yourself that life will begin after you lose weight, smooth the wrinkles, cover the scars, or look a little more like the person you think you were supposed to be? What if summer wasn't about changing your body? What if it was about changing the story you've been telling yourself about it? Take a moment and think about everything your body has carried you through. The places it's taken you. The people it embraced, the tears it cried and the laughter it held. The children that may have grown. The miles that had had walked. The challenges it survived. Maybe your body has never been asking to be perfect. Maybe it's only asking to be accepted. And as we move through the summer, I hope you spend a little less time looking in the mirror and a lot more time stepping into the water. Because life is never cared about what your body looks like, it only asks you to show up and live it.
00:19:28 Conclusion: As I folded my towel and gathered my things, I realized I wasn't putting away the same swimsuit I had taken out of the drawer that morning. It looked exactly the same, but I didn't. Sometimes the things that change us aren't the things we wear. They're the stories we choose to believe while we are wearing them. Thank you for spending this time with me. If today's story resonated with you, I'd love for you to leave a review or share this episode with someone who might need the reminder that their body is worthy of the life they are living right now. You can continue the conversation with me on Instagram @unfashionedpod. And if you'd even like to read stories and have some reflection on past episodes, I'd love for you to join me on Substack, where each week I keep unraveling what no longer fits. Next time, we'll be reaching for something many of us throw on without a second thought, a cover up. We'll explore the difference between hiding ourselves and protecting ourselves, and why choosing what we reveal can be one of the healthiest forms of authenticity. Until next time, remember life has never asked your body to be perfect. It only asked to be lived in.
00:20:50 Conclusion: And as always, keep unraveling what no longer fits and rewearing what was always real.