A pleasing double bind: the Feeld guide to chest binding

There are many different reasons to bind one’s chest, and every experience is unique. I bind, not for the visual effect, but for the sensation. Chest binding gives me a pleasing feeling, from the pull of fabric around the nipples and through the shoulders, to the light restriction on the chest. I might relate the feeling to putting Vaseline on chapped nipples after a long run, or wrapping myself in a fitted sheet (my favored way of self-regulating). Binding is a comfort and a form of relief.

Displeasing binds

Though the experience brings me pleasure, some degree of bodily shame also winds its way through my practice of binding a large chest. I’d long been self-conscious about my breasts, since I developed them at age 11. They were always an issue, and often a topic of attention, conversation, censure, and mockery. At 17, for example, I interned at a think tank; I was the only high school student in the office, and the only woman in my cohort of interns. Someone anonymously wrote “boobs” in response to one question in a survey I was tasked with sending around. A few evenings later, the office gathered for a party. With everyone around a large table, I jokingly asked who had typed “boobs” into the survey. One of the men, balding, in his 40s, and seated next to his wife, said, “well the elephant in the room is that you have huge boobs.” His wife laughed and lightly slapped his arm. 

At 18, the year before I started binding, I went to a Shibari, or rope bondage, workshop. I was again the youngest person in the room, and one of the only participants present without a partner. I was immediately summoned to the front to model a chest harness. I enjoyed the rope work and knots, but the aesthetic purpose of the harness was compression around my breasts, which protruded. Some of the sensations around my ribcage gave me the same feeling as binding would later, but the effect on my breasts was the opposite—my nipples were there to be seen, not sensed and experienced for myself. I felt put on display, and I dissociated, though I couldn’t name my reaction at the time. 

I later learned that binding, by contrast, gives me a private pleasure and allows me to be present with myself.

How binding makes me feel

I bought my first chest binder when I was 19. The tank binder by the gender-affirming clothing company GC2B was likely a size too small; still, I loved the way it made my breasts squish out in rolls from my armpits or gather up near my neck, before I learned to use my hands to tug my breasts into place. Sometimes one breast would get compressed downwards and the other upwards, and I would recenter them by squeezing my fingers against the fat, dragging my nipples against the textured cotton until both breasts were evenly placed. 

Putting on the binder for the first time, I felt relief, coherence, settledness, and—perhaps paradoxically, given the settled feeling—an ability to move forward in my personal narrative. Even then, binding was not solely a matter of flattening my chest, though the aesthetic effect I enjoyed so much was lumpy and lush. I thought I looked like a little kid wearing a padded muscle shirt Halloween costume, and I liked the soft earnestness of it.

When I lost weight in my 20s, my breasts went from swollen and riddled with stretch marks to deflated, marked by loose skin that bunches around the nipples when I lie on my back. Even so, brands like Victoria’s Secret don’t carry my size, a 30 band and GG cup. I rarely wear a bra because most bras only draw attention to my chest, with the too-small cup cutting across and making two little mountains on each breast, and because I don’t like the wire poking my ribs.

For me, binding is neither about appearance nor about gender expression—or not exactly (though it’s important to acknowledge that, for many people, it is). When I want my chest to look flat against the rest of my torso, I push out my stomach, creating the opposite of the stereotypical feminine “ideal” of a small waist. I look like the Little League umpire who puts a pad under his shirt to protect against stray baseballs. The chest, which houses the heart and lungs, organs which carry so much importance for our physical survival, is given gendered meaning I don’t find intuitive. Masculinity and femininity have always struck me as too complex and slippery to map neatly onto my body shape. Maybe the way my own breasts are sexualized, over and against how I feel about my body and gender, makes the distinction between a masculine and a feminine form seem particularly arbitrary to me.

Binding allows me to create a space of privacy around myself, which is soothing and protects against the dysphoria of being exposed. Binding reminds me my body isn’t going anywhere, will not run away from me; it counteracts a flight response by making me feel anchored. But experience complicates the distinction between privacy and exposure, like it complicates the distinction between masculinity and femininity. All those categories depend to an extent on other people’s perceptions, which are variable and unpredictable. Ultimately, I bind mostly (though not entirely) for myself: for how it makes my body feel, and how those sensations affect my inner experience. 

Breath and body work

Recently, flipping through Light on Pranayama, a book about yoga and breath work by B.K.S. Iyengar, I was intrigued by images of Iyengar lying flat in Savasana, or corpse pose, with weights on his lower torso and arms. There was something whimsical in his posture of surrender. Savasana is a resting pose that usually comes at the end of a yoga class, enabling the effortful movements of the class to settle into the body. For those who are still restless, however, Iyengar advises weights. I was so tickled by the photos, I tried it myself, placing a 45-pound weight on my hips, and two 5-pound weights on my hands (do not place a weight on your chest).  

I filmed myself lying there, weighted. In the video, I wear a small smile on my face, my eyes closed; as the minutes pass, my body visibly relaxes and softens into the ground. The weight on my hips digs against the skin and causes my stomach fat to warp to the sides. My spine is glued to the spongy mat beneath me. This form of compression brings me a pleasing sensation similar to binding, and reminds me to be conscious of my breath. 

A step-by-step guide to chest binding

What is chest binding?

Binding is, broadly, the practice of wearing garments to flatten the chest. 

It’s an optional tool, and a personal choice. It might be something you do consistently, or only as and when you feel comfortable. While binding is commonly associated with trans people assigned female at birth, it’s not limited to the transgender community, as explained by the Norfolk LGBTQ+ Project: “People bind for performance, drag, cosplay, to better express themselves or to look a certain way.” For many, chest binding is a form of expression, and a tool for feeling more comfortable in their body—no matter their motivations.  

Different types of binders

I most often wear a full tank binder, which covers the torso from the shoulders to the belly button; there are also half tank options, which cut off right below the chest tissue. Over-the-hip binders cover the full torso and easily tuck into pants. Finding the perfect binder for your needs may require trial and error. You can explore different brands and styles with resources like the Binder Finder from the Healthy Binding resource hub, created by Frances Reed, a licensed bodywork and massage therapist specializing in gender transition. 

Other safe methods for binding include sports compression vests (which are especially effective for smaller chests), sports bras, and kinetic tape designed for compression from brands such as TransTape. Binders, sports bras, and compression shirts are designed for multiple wears, but the same piece of kinetic tape should not be reapplied once removed from the skin. 

Materials to avoid: While kinetic tape is safe for binding, medical tape should be avoided. Cling wrap, duct tape, and elastic bandages are also unsuitable for binding.

How to bind your chest safely 

Every person’s experience with binding is different, but whatever your reasons, it is important to practice binding safely. The Norfolk LGBTQ+ Project offers the following advice: 

• Wear your binder for a maximum of 8 hours a day.
• Allow your body regular breaks from compression, such as when you’re home alone, stretching, or sleeping. 
• Change your binder if you think it’s too tight or causing you pain.
• Wash your binder regularly to reduce skin problems.
• Have a couple of options if you bind daily (so you always have a clean one available).

It is suggested that you avoid sleeping or working out in your binder. Sleep is time for the body to repair itself from the wear and tear of daily life, and unrestricted breathing is crucial for this process, as Frances Reed advises in Healthy Chest Binding for Trans and Non-Binary People: A Practical Guide. Binding during a workout, moreover, can lead to dizziness, shortness of breath, and overheating. An athletic shirt with light compression or a minimizing sports bra are suitable alternatives to wear while working out, Reed adds. As part of your regular exercise and self-care routine, massage your neck, shoulders, and ribs to ease any soreness from binding.

When it comes to correct sizing, take your measurements periodically enough to account for weight fluctuations, potentially once every month or two. Since binders stretch out, taking your measurements can also help determine when your body and/or the binder change shape. Signs that a binder fits incorrectly include shallow breathing, red marks, indentations, and hunching when worn, Reed notes. In order to ensure a binder fits, some people prefer to get one custom made. 

How to know your binder fits correctly 

The Norfolk LGBTQ+ Project advises that if a garment fits properly, the wearer “should be able to fit two fingers down the side of the binder when on without struggling.” They add, “If you find it harder to breathe, if your skin is affected or you are in any kind of pain at all, it’s too tight.” While binding may feel unusual or a little uncomfortable at first, they note, it should never be painful. 

Though binding can be a positive experience for many, there are risks to doing so unsafely. Some common problems include a sore back or shoulders, acne or skin irritation, uncomfortable sweating, overheating, and reduced skin elasticity (after years of continued use).

More serious risks include difficulty breathing (when binding incorrectly)—those with asthma or conditions associated with shortness of breath are advised to be more mindful of this. Some people also report experiencing acid reflux or heartburn. If something feels painful or wrong in your body, reconsider the garment you’re using and how long you wear it for.

✳

My story of binding is about the draw of pleasing sensations. For some, sensation in the chest is fraught with anxiety and dysphoria. However you feel about your body is ok. While reasons for binding can be varied, personal, and complex, community resources and expert guidance (like those offered here) can help support your entry—or return—to the practice, with safety, comfort, and self-understanding.

If you’re ready to connect in a space where you can feel wholly yourself, continue your self-discovery journey on Feeld.