My changing trans body makes shopping for clothes harder (2024)

Surgery, hormones, names and pronouns are some of the more well-known changes that go along with being trans.

Something I wasn't expecting was the frustrating and expensive but rewarding process of buying a whole new wardrobe.

I've always loved the changeable nature of clothes. It's fun to express a mood or create an impression through my choice of trouser.

But as my understanding of myself evolved and testosterone began to reshape my body, I had to change clotheshorses in midstream. What was once a fun hobby became complicated work and opening my cupboard suddenly felt like opening Pandora's sock drawer.

Unpicking the past

Examining my childhood relationship to clothes was actually one of the things that helped me come to terms with my transness.

In high school, I wore a tuxedo for my graduation, a decision one teacher perplexingly called "very brave", even though tipsily wearing a pale hire dress to a formal dinner is much more dangerous.

I'd asked my parents to enrol me in that particular state school because they allowed shorts as a summer uniform for girls.

Even when I did wear dresses as a child, I couldn't bear the feeling without shorts or leggings underneath.

While everyone has their gender nonconforming moments, these sartorial signs helped me recognise that my desire to be seen as gender neutral wasn't fabricated out of thin air.

Trying to find the right fit

I'd experimented with clothes before. During my PhD I'd tried to save money and reduce the stress of decision-making by wearing the same outfit for a year.

It took me a few weeks to decide on clothes that would be appropriate for everything from work meetings to funerals, but luckily my meetings were usually miserable affairs anyway.

I expected to miss my daily metamorphosis, but instead found it a relief not to have to do so much laundry.

Transition is a slow process. It can take years to save for surgery and see physical changes from hormones, but I was excited and impatient to try out new styles of clothing. Emboldened, I ventured into the mysterious aisles of the op shop men's section for the first time.

But I was quickly disappointed by the drabness of mainstream men's fashion and the difficulty in finding anything small enough to fit me. Convincing myself that grey was an interesting colour and I didn't look like a rushed Christo installation, I walked out with an armful of badly-fitting men's clothes only to sheepishly return them all a month later.

Thigh-high expectations — asking too much of my clothes

Weirdly enough, as my experimentation with clothes continued, I also felt more comfortable wearing pink than I ever had before – having some mental distance from femininity meant that I could see pink as just a nice meaningless colour rather than for its fraught gender associations.

But I also became very aware of how my clothing choices affected others and how they viewed me.

I became self-conscious about appearing queer enough to be recognised as non-binary, but not queer enough that I would face hostility.

I wanted my clothes to help my friends to see me as agender in an authentic way, hom*ophobes to see me as androgynous in a non-threatening way, employers to see me as non-binary in an undemanding and employable way, my parents to see me as unchanged, and everyone else to see me as cool.

This was a lot to ask from a pair of pants and experimenting with clothes became nerve-wracking instead of fun.

Material reality

After I went on testosterone and had top surgery, clothes became important as measuring tools — I could track the gradual changes in my body by the way familiar pieces felt tighter or looser.

But my existing wardrobe — a treasure chest of 70s trousers and 80s blouses — no longer fit my conception of myself and increasingly didn't fit my body, either.

While visible physical changes such as broadening shoulders and narrowing hips were a slow and subtle shift, my faster metabolism and higher body temperature meant that I went from wearing jumpers all year round to singlets and shorts in July.

Higher haemoglobin also meant my pale skin became rosy, changing the colour palette that suited my complexion – cooler colours now look dreadful on me.

Finishing touches

I've since found a few stores online that sell extra-small men's fashion, and a local dressmaker who can adjust my clothes as my body slowly shifts.

However, having a disability and working as a freelancer during a cost-of-living crisis means that new clothes are too much of a splurge these days. While my local op shop still has some amazing finds, the prices have gone up even there.

I'm planning to try and sell some of my best vintage pieces to help fund a future surgery, and in the meantime I've been able to create some outfits that give a masculine vibe, even though they're still technically still women's clothes.

After some scary encounters with people who clocked me as trans, I dress to keep a low profile unless I'm out with friends.

Proving my gender through my clothing choices has become less important to me as I become more secure in who I am. While I was preoccupied with giving the right impression in the beginning of my transition, I worry a lot less about other people's opinions now I'm a bit more comfortable in my body.

And I recognise that my wardrobe — like the rest of me — is a work in progress.

Antimony Deor has a PhD in Media and Communications and is the 2024 recipient of the Science Journalists Association of Australia Early Career Grant. They are a freelance writer and artist covering endocrinology and trans news for a number of publications.