Growing Up in the ’70s, 80’s and 90’s: When There Were No Words for Who I Was

Growing up in the 1970s was a different world. There were no words like transgender or non-binary in everyday conversation, at least not in the small country town where I was raised. People didn’t talk about gender beyond the basics: you were a boy or a girl, and that was that. But even as a kid, long before I knew the language for it, I knew I didn’t fit neatly into that box marked “girl.”

I remember being around 10 or 11, before puberty hit, and feeling comfortable in my own skin. I climbed trees, rode horses, and spent most of my time outdoors, always more at ease in jeans and a T-shirt than anything remotely “girly.” Back then, people would just call you a tomboy and laugh it off. And for a while, that label gave me some breathing room, it was a way to explain myself that adults could understand, even if it never quite fit.

I grew up with the label of tomboy, and during that period of time, it was an acceptable term, one that suited me perfectly. It allowed me to exist authentically, at least as much as a kid could, without too many questions or expectations. It was my first sense of freedom, even though I didn’t yet know why it mattered so much to me.

Then puberty came along and turned everything upside down. I still remember the day my chest started to develop, that creeping sense of discomfort, confusion, and frustration. I didn’t have the words for dysphoria, but I felt it. I hated it when people started treating me differently, when suddenly I was expected to behave a certain way, wear certain things, or “grow into being a young lady.”

Luckily, my mum gave up pretty quickly on trying to get me into dresses.

Many years later, when I told her about my upcoming top surgery, she simply said,

‘I always said Mother Nature messed up and put you in the wrong body.’

Unlike so many, I was, and am, incredibly fortunate. I’ll be forever grateful to have been born to such a loving and supportive mum.

The day I had to start wearing a bra was the day something inside me hardened. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort, it was the feeling of being forced into a role that felt foreign and wrong. I would look in the mirror and feel detached, like the reflection wasn’t mine. I didn’t understand why I felt that way, because no one talked about it. There was no internet, no community, no visibility. Just silence.

So I did what a lot of us did back then, I buried it. I tried to make sense of myself in a world that didn’t have a place for me. I kept living, kept working, kept going, but that sense of “not quite fitting” never left.

Then, when I moved to Sydney, I discovered the word butch, and that changed everything. For the first time, I had a word that gave me space, comfort, and a sense of belonging. Butch fit in a way nothing else had, because to me, it’s always been more than gender, it’s an identity, a way of being, a truth. Butch has no gender, it’s where I found myself when nothing else made sense. And to this day, it’s still a core part of who I am.

But it would be a couple more decades before I found the other words that described me more fully, non-binary and trans masc. Those words didn’t erase butch, they expanded it. They gave language to what I had always known deep down. They helped me understand why I felt the way I did, and they connected me to a community that finally reflected parts of myself I’d been carrying quietly for so long.

The ’70s through to, and including the 90’s shaped me in ways I’m still unpacking. They were times of silence and survival, but it also gave me strength, the kind that comes from navigating the world without a map. And while I wouldn’t wish that confusion on anyone, I’m grateful to live in a time now where there are words, communities, and visibility for the next generation.

Because everyone deserves to know who they are, and to have a world that recognizes them when they do.

Why Get Strapt Matters to Me

That’s why I started Get Strapt. I wanted to create something I never had growing up, affirmation, comfort, and belonging. But more than that, I wanted to fill a gap that has existed for far too long. For years, trans and non-binary people have had to make do, to modify, to hide, to compromise, just to feel comfortable in something as simple as swimwear.

Get Strapt exists because we deserve better. We deserve options that don’t force us to choose between confidence and comfort, between self-expression and safety. There’s a huge gap in the market when it comes to inclusive, functional, and affirming swimwear and gear, and that gap isn’t just about fashion, it’s about dignity, identity, and visibility.

Every time I see someone in the community put on Get Strapt gear and stand a little taller, smile a little wider, or finally feel like themselves, that’s why it matters. Because I know that feeling. I know what it’s like to want to disappear, to not see yourself reflected anywhere. And I also know the power of that first moment when something finally fits, inside and out.

Get Strapt isn’t just a brand to me, it’s a statement. It’s proof that we belong, that our bodies are worthy of celebration, and that we deserve to take up space. Every design, every detail, and every initiative like Splash of Kindness is my way of giving back to the community that helped me find myself. It’s about creating what I wish had existed for me, so that others never have to feel invisible the way I once did.