Relief
Image courtesy of the Gender Spectrum Collection.
By the time I bought my first commercial chest binder in my mid-twenties, I had been experimenting with different ways of flattening my chest for several years. What worked best was wearing a too-small sports bra under layers of baggy clothing, coupled with perpetually hunched-over shoulders. My first purposemade binder, from an underwear company called Underworks, was a revelation.
Marketed as a sports bra and chest binder that would flatten and compress, it was a black, cropped tank top made of cotton, elastene and nylon, and it cost £34.99. The specifications detailed how the material offered a four-way stretch and double layers of Underworks’ hybrid cotton-wrapped spandex and nylon MagiCotton, although I confess that having typed “chest binder” into Amazon, I simply went with the one that would ship soonest. But when it arrived it was obviously too small: getting it on or off meant contorting my arms behind my back to drag the binder down slowly and painfully over each inch of flesh; I often wondered if I’d be stuck in it forever, or never able to get it on. After a day of wearing it, I would have sore, red grooves in the skin under my armpits.
The next binder I bought, from a US-based company called gc2b, cost $35 plus extortionate shipping and customs fee to the UK. It was made from nylon and spandex, in a light beige colour – the company has five skin-tone shades to choose from in half-tank, full-tank or racerback styles – and it offered a much better fit. I’d measured my chest and shoulders according to the instructions, which made a difference; the binder was easier to wriggle over my shoulders and slide down my chest, didn’t leave marks on my body, and was comfortable enough that I mostly forgot that I was wearing it. gc2b says you can swim in its binders, though I never did. Sadly, however, this binder didn’t compress my chest as well, and seemed to lose effectiveness over time.
Because it gave me the flatness I wanted, I normally went with the Underworks binder. I could usually wear it for about six hours before becoming so uncomfortable that I could think of nothing except getting it off me, which meant I typically either bound during the workday and then avoided socialising in the evening so I could go home and take it off, or had a slouchy, unhappy work day not wearing a binder so that I could go out in the evening wearing one. In the summers, binding was a sweaty, itchy, spotty, breathless experience. It was only after I stopped needing to wear a binder that I realised how much energy I used up planning the logistics of my day around binding. But despite what might appear like a long list of downsides, wearing a binder made me happier, more confident and more at ease than I had ever been in my life.
Throughout history, people of all genders have used clothing to shape their bodies: from corsets to push-up bras, high heels to body armour. And trans people, too, have shaped our bodies to feel more at home in them. Trans men such as Michael Dillon (believed to be the first person to take synthetic testosterone for transition, in 1939), and Brandon Teena (whose 1993 murder was the subject of Oscar-winning film Boys Don’t Cry (1999)), used long bandages wrapped tightly around their chests to flatten them. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, many trans men simply lived as men – working with other men and fighting in wars and marrying their wives in church – without anyone knowing they were trans until they died, when a coroner inadvertently discovered their anatomy and outed them posthumously. In a time before binders, they must have flattened their chests to pass as male. Going back further, Egyptian pharaoh Hatshepsut ruled as a man nearly three millennia ago, wearing a fake golden beard and men’s clothing. Ancient art depicts Hatshepsut with a masculine body – although much of this was later destroyed. Whether Hatshepsut’s chest was bound with strips of fabric we don’t know. We can’t know the gender identity of people from another era; speculating about it is fraught.
Although cloth worn that long ago could have survived, fabric used for binding is unlikely to be recognisable for what it was. Lorraine Smith, a researcher of 20th-century underwear and developments in textiles, has found that people in ancient Greece and Rome wore garments to alter the shape of their chests. One example comes from a mosaic in a Roman villa that depicts athletes, with “some women, or people with breasts, pictured in this, and many people have said that it looks like [they’re] wearing a bikini,” says Smith. “I found a book on Roman clothing and dress and it seems to be a kind of breast band, so actually it was like binding but for sports purposes – to keep everything tucked away for exercising.”
Today, we have binding options that our trancestors could only dream about. Contemporary commercial binders cover the torso and pass over both shoulders, usually in either a half- or full-tank style, and are worn under clothes. Binder companies offer guidelines: don’t bind for more than eight hours, take breaks from binding, don’t sleep, swim or play sports in a binder, never layer two of them together, and make sure the binder you’re wearing is the correct size for your chest. A binder should be tight, but not painful. “Binders are designed to safely create a flatter, more masculine, chest silhouette without causing discomfort or affecting breathing,” says Jack Jones, founder of Spectrum Outfitters, a small family-run company that’s been selling binders made from recycled fishing nets since 2017. “Our binders feature a rigid front panel that doesn’t stretch, and a compressive back panel that pulls the front flat,” Jones explains. “This differs from other brands which use stretch fabrics to compress all the way around. We believe this gives the best results while putting half the pressure on your body for the most comfortable feel.”
But while privileged trans and nonbinary people living in the UK like me can buy safer commercial binders, many of the companies selling them only ship to Western countries. Young people with transphobic parents may struggle to get a commercial binder, as might people without the money to buy one, or an address to have it posted to. So, many trans people still use DIY binding methods. While this can be done safely, it takes practice. Unsafe binding methods include using duct tape or clingfilm to bind, which can lead to broken skin, chest and back pain, and bruised or fractured ribs. While trans people have, throughout history, accepted these risks and bound however they could, the production of commercial binders means that safer binding is within reach of more people than ever.
Ever resourceful, trans mutual-aid groups help get binders to those who can’t otherwise access them. Many organise events where people can bring binders they no longer need or want to donate, and others can have a donated binder fitted to their chest. Informal donations or swaps often happen too; after I had top surgery, a queer Nigerian activist I follow on Instagram posted that their friend was about to travel from London to Lagos and could take binders with them, so I donated my binders this way. “The market for binders is growing,” Jones confirms. “Optimistically, I feel that attitudes towards transgender people are also changing and that’s why more people feel able to come out or even to experiment with their gender. Binders are great for experimentation as they are a non-permanent option.”
However, as is often the case when we make progress for oppressed communities, there is currently a huge backlash in the UK to trans lives. In British politics and media, a manufactured moral panic spreads misinformation about trans people and relentlessly attacks trans women. Young trans people are being targeted, first with the high-profile court case of Keira Bell vs. the Tavistock and Portman NHS Foundation Trust that attempted – and initially succeeded – in banning puberty blockers, and now binders are also under fire. Trans charity Mermaids has been subjected to relentless abuse and harassment from anti-trans campaigners and the press for the supposedly harmful practice of sending binders to young people who want to try them (in September 2022, The Telegraph reported “massive safeguarding red flags” surrounding this). This comes after years of transphobic campaign groups such as Transgender Trend (a self-styled anti-trans pressure group identified as “dangerous” by LGBT+ charity Stonewall) publishing pieces 55 describing binders as “serious self-harm” as well as a route to “grooming unhappy young girls”.
As a trans person, I know from my own experience, as well as that of my friends and community, that a commercial binder was effective in its stated purpose of flattening my chest and had multiple other beneficial effects. If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t have kept wearing it. This should be all the evidence needed to stop maligning binders and start getting them to more trans people who need them. Trans people shouldn’t have to convince those who don’t share our experience to allow us to wear a garment designed to shape bodies in a way that brings joy or, at least, reduces depression. Bodily autonomy – whether it’s for abortions, contraception or transition – is a foundation of gender equality and human rights.
There is also scientific evidence that supports the use of specially designed binding garments. The first proper research into binders was a landmark 2016 study published in international journal Culture, Health & Sexuality that confirmed both the negative side-effects of binding – including pain, shortness of breath and dizziness, skin infection and scarring, overheating, and itching – and the positive results of binding for people who experience gender dysphoria, the clinically significant distress at the mismatch between the gender a person is assigned at birth and their gender identity. Numerous scientific studies and editorials in major medical journals have found that affirming trans people’s gender – whether that’s through binding, using a person’s correct name and pronouns, allowing them to access puberty blockers, surgeries or hormones, or through gender-affirming counselling – leads, broadly speaking, to happier, better functioning, less suicidal trans people. Despite this evidence, and with none of their own, the transphobic lobby continues to claim that binding is harmful. Anti-trans activist Denise Caignon, who started her blog 4thWaveNow in response to her child questioning their gender identity, called binding a “frankly dangerous” and “mutilating” practice pushed on young people by “strangers” from the internet.
“There is quite a big debate currently in the media on the risks associated with binding and I understand people’s concern,” Jones says. But he says that something which “often gets left out of the conversation” is “the mental health and wellbeing of the wearer”. “Gender dysphoria can be devastating for sufferers,” Jones says. “I know from experience that it can impact every aspect of your life. It’s a horrible fact that depression, suicide and self-harm rates are significantly higher for trans people. For many people, wearing a chest binder can alleviate some of the immense pain caused by dysphoria.”
Like most moral panics, this transphobic one will, eventually, end. In the future, we may see binders made freely available to those who need them, and engineered to remove negative side-effects. In 2019, Loughborough University student Miles Kilburn designed a “smart” binder using an alloy called Nitinol, controlled by a remote, that would allow the wearer to take compression breaks without taking the binder off. Kilburn worked on his design with trans students, and said he hoped his binder, Breathe, would one day be available on the NHS. “Top surgery is very much an expensive and permanent decision,” he said. “For many transgender people having a product like Breathe could be an alternate option which gives them more time to consider whether they want surgery whilst experiencing much less pain from binding.” Jones agrees that it’s critical to have people who wear binders involved in their design – he was binding, and had been for three or four years, when he started designing binders himself. “I had injured myself using an unsafe binder so I had soreness in my ribs on one side,” Jones says. “I think it’s important that someone that understands the dangers and the dayto-day experience of binding is involved in the development of a binder as they will understand the customer’s needs.”
Although I only wore them for a few years, I can’t overstate how huge the relief of wearing a binder was, how much it improved my mental health, and the knock-on effect this had on my relationships, work, my physical health and my confidence. Some trans people are lifelong binder wearers, others wear a binder temporarily. Either way, well-designed commercial binders offer a crucial lifeline, and can provide a safer route to a flat chest.
Words Vic Parsons
This article was originally published in Design Reviewed #1. To buy the issue, or subscribe to the journal, please visit the online shop.