This plastic sleeve, this is everything I’ve ever been given by the NCAA .... I carry [it] with me at every meet I go to, but I’ve never needed it. But I always carry it just in case, and especially after everything happened with Lia [Thomas], I was like, “I need to carry this for my own safety.” Again, I’ve never been questioned, I’ve never had any issues, but it makes me feel safer to carry it.
Though Dylan is trans-masculine and has never been asked to show his paperwork, his remarks demonstrate the profound impacts of heightened antitrans rhetoric after fellow trans swimmer Lia Thomas made headlines at the 2022 NCAA Championships (Lens, 2023). In 2021, nine states had legislation addressing interscholastic transgender athletes, but by August 2023, that number had jumped to 23 states (Barnes, 2023). Policy efforts have focused on restricting trans-feminine participation, whose bodies are often deemed a “threat” to women’s sports (Bianchi, 2017), while just five states have enacted restrictions for trans men (Barnes, 2023). Likewise, the NCAA’s eligibility requirements are less stringent for trans-masculine athletes (NCAA, 2023). However, the act of Dylan carrying around a folder to ensure his safety suggests that they are also impacted by the athletic policy and public rhetoric that largely target trans-feminine athletes. This paper draws on in-depth interviews with 13 trans-masculine athletes who have competed in the NCAA, asking: How do trans-masculine individuals navigate gender identity alongside college sport? In what ways do debates about fairness inform their experiences with NCAA policy?
To answer these questions, I situate these trans-masculine individuals and longstanding athletes within the competitive institution of collegiate sport that upholds the gender binary and emphasizes sex differences. During the coming out process and in navigating collegiate sport, participants’ experiences illustrate the continued intersection between gender and sport. Their identities as trans and as an athlete became deeply intertwined, and decisions around their gender transition and continued participation in sport were mutually constituted. Unlike trans-feminine athletes who are seen as a threat to women’s sports, I found that these trans athletes’ experiences in collegiate sport are contingent on their identities as trans-masculine, legitimized through the beliefs about the inferior female athlete. Sporting policy renders their bodies “female” until they begin testosterone and therefore they are not seen as a threat to women’s sports, nor truly competitive against cisgender men. This research contributes to a more nuanced understanding of trans athletes in competitive sport: Although trans-masculine individuals are largely ignored in the debates about fairness, they are still impacted by antitrans rhetoric, and their bodies exist in opposition to the trans-feminine athlete, emphasizing sport’s continued reliance on the gender binary.
A Gendered Playing Field
The existing literature has established how gender and sport are deeply intertwined: sport upholds the gender binary and upholds dominant beliefs about bodily differences through a complex web of interactional, structural, and cultural contexts (Adjepong & Travers, 2023; Messner, 2007). Scholars have described how sport encourages boys and young men to be physical, violent, and aggressive (Messner, 2007) and emphasizes sex difference, socializing male athletes into “orthodox hetero-masculinity” through the exclusion of girls and women (Jones & Travers, 2023, p. 94). Sex differences also become heightened, as the male body is seen as having a competitive advantage due to a testosterone-driven puberty and its association with increased muscle mass, strength, and endurance (Besnier et al., 2017; Jordan-Young & Karkazis, 2019). Indeed, female athletes who perform “suspiciously well” have been increasingly subject to sex testing—particularly if their bodies do not conform to dominant Western ideals, including being White, thin, and heterosexual (Venturi, 2023, p. 140).
In contrast, contemporary sport renders female athletes inferior, weak, and prone to injury; those who are deemed “too muscular” are labeled unfeminine and freakish (Heinecken, 2016). Sport thus reifies a gender binary premised on sex difference and heterosexuality, where girls and young women are often sexualized, rather than recognized, for their athleticism (Heinecken, 2016). The inferiority of the female body has historically influenced girl’s and women’s opportunities in sport, which were extremely limited before Title IX was passed in 1972. This federal civil rights law prohibits gender discrimination in federally funded, American education programs (Druckman & Sharrow, 2023). While opportunities for girls and women in sport have undoubtedly improved, recent research on Title IX’s 50th anniversary highlights persistent gender inequality: Within the NCAA, women are given less recruitment and scholarship money and are underrepresented in leadership positions (Druckman & Sharrow, 2023). Taken together, the inferior female athlete and persistent gender inequality in sport paints a broader context for the trans athlete, who must figure out how their physical body fits within the gender binary while navigating the differential treatment between men’s and women’s sports at the collegiate level.
Overview of NCAA Policy
As Druckman and Sharrow (2023, p. 53) have detailed, collegiate sport is controlled at multiple levels, from individual coaches and administrators to member schools and the NCAA. As a governing body, the NCAA determines the academic and athletic eligibility, recruitment, funding, and compliance of its athletes. Collegiate sport thus falls somewhere between children’s play and elite-level competition, and societal priorities for these athletes have proved complex (Safer, 2022). Further, in detailing the parallels between lasting sex-segregation, gender inequity, and trans exclusion in sport, Sharrow (2023) has cautioned that exclusionary sporting policy constitutes an explicit form of structural harm toward trans people. Unlike Title IX, however, issues of transgender participation are relatively recent. As highlighted in Table 1 below, the NCAA’s first transgender policy was established in 2010 (Griffin & Carroll, 2011).
2010 NCAA Trans Athlete Policy
| 1. A trans male (FTM) student-athlete who has received a medical exception for treatment with testosterone for diagnosed Gender Identity Disorder or gender dysphoria and/or Transsexualism, for purposes of NCAA competition may compete on a men’s team, but is no longer eligible to compete on a women’s team without changing that team status to a mixed team. 2. A trans female (MTF) student-athlete being treated with testosterone suppression medication for Gender Identity Disorder or gender dysphoria and/or Transsexualism, for the purposes of NCAA competition may continue to compete on a men’s team but may not compete on a women’s team without changing it to a mixed team status until completing one calendar year of testosterone suppression treatment. |
This initial language suggests that trans athletes are inconveniencing the existing gender binary within college sport, also relying on the binary terms trans male and trans female, ignoring the existence of nonbinary and genderqueer athletes. Such eligibility requirements also emphasize the importance of sex assigned at birth: a trans man can continue competing on a women’s team until he starts testosterone, which implies that without any medical intervention, his body is considered “female” for the purposes of sport competition. Further, a trans man who has started hormones is no longer eligible to compete on a women’s team without rendering the team mixed-gender, suggesting that his body is no longer seen as female. Finally, these requirements prioritize the role of testosterone in determining athletic success; even when switching to a men’s team, trans men are required to seek a medical exemption from the NCAA, as testosterone is considered a banned substance.
In January 2022, the NCAA introduced its new transgender participation policy, currently in its third phase of implementation (NCAA, 2023). The new NCAA policy refers to transgender student-athletes more broadly, but still distinguishes between trans men and women. For trans-feminine athletes, this policy outlines sport-specific testosterone thresholds and stipulates that after full implementation, trans athletes must document hormone levels at least twice annually (NCAA, 2023). Conversely, there were no changes to eligibility requirements for trans-masculine athletes: those who do not begin hormonal transition are still eligible to compete on a women’s team, and should they begin testosterone replacement therapy, they must request a medical exemption from the NCAA. There is also no testosterone threshold set for trans men when competing on a men’s team. Finally, the NCAA has historically emphasized amateurism; yet, when introducing their updated transgender policy, they aligned themselves with the Olympic framework, citing the importance of “balancing fairness, inclusion and safety” (NCAA, 2023). By following Olympic-level policy, the NCAA positions college athletes as closer to professional rather than amateur. Ultimately, using the words fairness and safety has clear implications for trans (feminine) athletes: without conforming to these standards, their bodies are deemed a competitive threat to women’s sports.
Situating the Trans-Masculine Athlete
The recent debates revolve around fairness and “protecting women’s sports,” with calls to ban trans-feminine athletes across various levels of competition due to lasting beliefs about unfair biological advantages (Bianchi, 2017; Ingram & Thomas, 2019; Lens, 2023; Sharrow, 2023). This is reminiscent of the historical approaches to sex testing within sport, which exclusively focus on determining who is “female enough” to compete in the women’s category, again normalizing Westernized female sporting bodies that are straight, white, and thin (Besnier et al., 2017). Scholars have also problematized the role of testosterone in sport (Bianchi, 2017; Safer, 2022). While testosterone is often framed as a “miracle molecule of athleticism,” Jordan-Young and Karkazis (2019) have refuted these claims, detailing the limitations of existing research. Chiefly, injecting testosterone does not lead to an immediate increase in hormone levels; the relationship between training, competition, and hormones is unclear, and much existing research fails to control for important variables, including age, body mass, and training. While research suggests some relationship between testosterone and strength, it is complicated and nonlinear and does not accurately predict athletic performance (Jordan-Young & Karkazis, 2019, p. 174).
Additionally, the emphasis on testosterone means that debates have largely centered on questions of fairness for the trans-feminine athlete (Lens, 2023). By stipulating that trans-feminine athletes suppress testosterone levels to compete on a women’s team, NCAA policy erroneously conflates high testosterone levels with competitive advantage. Moreover, the penis panic, as coined by Westbrook and Schilt (2014), describes the underlying assumption that anyone with a penis cannot be a woman. Early Olympic policy required trans-feminine athletes undergo genital surgery before competing in the women’s category (Ingram & Thomas, 2019), insinuating that even after taking feminizing hormones, trans-feminine individuals are viewed as “male-bodied.” Conversely, trans-masculine athletes can compete on a women’s team until beginning testosterone, and no policy has ever required that they undergo genital surgery. Such policies suggest that penisless, trans-masculine athletes are seen as female-bodied until beginning hormones, and even then, they are not seen as truly male (Westbrook & Schilt, 2014). This raises an interesting dichotomy: on one hand, trans-masculine athletes competing on a women’s team may inadvertently reinforce hegemonic notions of athleticism by emphasizing the role of the physical body in sport. On the other hand, by experiencing success competing against cisgender men, these athletes may challenge traditional notions of gendered athleticism.
Accordingly, for trans-masculine athletes, decisions around sport and transition occur at the intersection of debates about gendered athleticism, questions of belonging, and personal desires. Prior research has suggested that trans athletes navigate sport as a landscape “in which it is almost impossible to ‘be me and be an athlete at the same time’” (Lucas-Carr & Krane, 2011, as cited in McCormack & Hanold, 2017, p. 32). Scholars have also detailed the complexities of gender transition: Not everyone wants to seek medical transition, but medicalization of the transgender body has placed increased pressure on “passing” as either male or female (Spade, 2006). This pressure is heightened in sport, as trans athletes must choose a male or female team. Prior research has found that some trans-masculine athletes feel isolated, excluded, and out of place (Hargie et al., 2015; Semerjian & Cohen, 2006). However, research also suggests that there may be positive impacts of gender transition alongside sport: Elling-Machartzki (2017) found that athletes’ experiences of gender transition were accompanied by feelings of pride, acceptance, and liberation. Similarly, Brazil’s first trans futebol team demonstrates how sport can provide a safe space for trans athletes and help reconcile the invisibility of trans identity within sport and broader society (Martins et al., 2023, p. 171).
In this article, I draw on interview data from 13 trans-masculine athletes competing in the NCAA. Although research has followed the recent debates about trans participation, most public discourse has focused on trans-feminine athletes (Lens, 2023; Sharrow, 2023). Less research has centered on the experiences of transgender athletes themselves, and few existing studies focus on competitive sport, which is highly influenced by policy. My analysis suggests that the experiences of these trans athletes in the NCAA were highly influenced by their gendered embodiment as trans-masculine: This impacted the coming out process by allowing them relatively easy access to sport and influenced their continued participation, where their identities of trans and athlete became inseparable and mutually constituting. Although they encountered challenges, the stories of these trans-masculine athletes also point to positive experiences of empowerment and belonging within collegiate sport.
Data and Methods
This project is based on interview data from current and former trans athletes competing in the NCAA. I sought participants who were at least 18 years old, current athletes, or had competed in the NCAA since 2011,2 and identified as transgender. Because of the small target population, I chose not to restrict by region, age, or division. After receiving approval from the institutional review board at the University at Albany, SUNY I created an electronic recruitment flier with a pink, blue, and white color scheme to represent the transgender flag. I began recruitment within my own networks; while I did not interview any close friends, I connected with other trans athletes who shared the study within their networks. Social media advertising on Instagram was the most successful, as multiple participants reached out after a well-known trans athlete shared the flier.
Table 2 provides an overview of the final sample, consisting of 13 athletes who competed in all three NCAA divisions across the United States and played seven different sports. Most participants self-identified as trans men; two athletes identified as nonbinary or genderqueer but also trans-masculine, and I subsequently refer to all athletes under this umbrella term, which best encapsulates their position—trans athletes assigned female at birth—under NCAA policy. Interviews were conducted between September 2022 to April 2023, and the majority of participants (n = 11) were aged 20–23 and current athletes or recent graduates.
Demographic Summary
| Characteristics | Frequency |
|---|---|
| Gender identity | |
| Trans man | 11 |
| Nonbinary/genderqueer | 2 |
| Age (years) | |
| 18–21 | 4 |
| 22–25 | 7 |
| 26+ | 2 |
| Race | |
| White | 12 |
| Biracial | 1 |
| Sport | |
| Swimming and diving | 4 |
| Rowing | 3 |
| Cross country/track and field | 2 |
| Lacrosse, softball, squash, or golf | 1 each |
| Competition level | |
| Division I | 3 |
| Division II | 1 |
| Division III | 9 |
| Location | |
| Northeast | 8 |
| Midwest | 2 |
| South | 2 |
| West | 1 |
| N = 13 |
I conducted each interview virtually over Zoom due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic and the ease of scheduling. Interviews were semistructured (Esterberg, 2002), and questions covered three main themes. First, I asked participants about their childhood experiences with sport, the college recruiting process, and their experiences overall in college. The bulk of the interview guide asked participants to reflect on transgender identity within sport: feelings about athletic clothing and uniforms, sharing spaces with cisgender teammates and opponents, and relationships with teammates and coaching staff. Finally, I asked how participants felt about the current state of transgender policy. Each interview lasted approximately 1 hr, and with consent of participants, all interviews were audio recorded and then transcribed by hand.
For analysis, I used VERBI software’s qualitative research tool MAXQDA. I coded transcripts one by one, coding interviews from athletes who played the same sport consecutively in an attempt to highlight similarities and differences between their experiences. My analytical process followed a grounded theory approach (Charmaz, 2001), where I started by open coding, identifying keywords, related words and phrases, and creating subcodes, which I then grouped into parent codes. I also wrote analytical memos at three intervals to help me make sense of the process: once before beginning the data analysis, at the halfway point, and again after open coding. To ensure consistency, I did a second pass over the data using a more selective approach (Saldaña, 2013), and I focused my analysis on three parent codes—trans athlete, fairness, and support—which I collapsed into two broader themes: the trans-masculine experience and support. In this paper, I center the trans-masculine identities of these athletes, arguing that experiences of interpersonal support and athletic eligibility within the NCAA were contingent upon their bodies being read as “female” prior to medical transition.
Throughout this process, I found myself reflecting upon how my own identities and embodiment impacted both data collection and analysis. I am visibly Asian, but given racial stereotypes, I believe that my perceived proximity to whiteness facilitated, rather than hindered, participants’ willingness to talk with me. Additionally, participants were no more than 3 years older or younger than me, and my similar age seemed to relieve some tension. Most importantly, however, was my shared identity as a trans-masculine athlete. Perhaps in my own insecurities, I had believed that participants would be able to tell I was transgender; after all, a Google search would reveal my experiences playing golf at Ithaca College, and I was hesitant about influencing data collection. However, during the second interview, it came up that I was a former trans athlete myself, which I viewed as a turning point: my participant expressed surprise and became more willing to talk, almost as if blurring the barrier between researcher and participant. I began each subsequent interview by disclosing my identity as a former trans athlete, and while not without its limitations, I believe that this allowed me to build rapport with participants and obtain meaningful data.
Due to the nature of the sample, these findings address the experiences of trans-masculine athletes only. In fact, many participants acknowledged that they believed their experiences were different from their trans-feminine counterparts. Therefore, it must be appropriately contextualized that the stories of these participants represent a subset of the trans athlete population at large. My findings emphasize how the experiences of these trans athletes in the NCAA were facilitated by their trans-masculine identities and ultimately became possible because of continued beliefs about the gender binary, sex difference, and inferior female-bodied athletes in the larger political climate.
Findings
Most participants started playing sports at a young age, and many (n = 8) participated on competitive club teams by middle school. Comparatively, these athletes came out as trans much later: only two were out in high school, the rest went through the coming out process during college. This timeline aligns with prior research, which suggests that trans-masculine individuals often experience gender dysphoria prior to puberty, but many do not transition until their early-20s (Zaliznyak et al., 2021). Below, I detail the coming out process for participants as they navigated transgender identity alongside the gendered institution of competitive, collegiate sport. Then, I examine how the identities of transgender and athlete became inseparable: decisions around both gender transition and sport occurred alongside one another and were mutually constituted. Finally, I discuss trans-masculine identity as a key factor in shaping these athletes’ experiences and argue that their experiences were facilitated by public discourse and NCAA policy that continues to uphold the inferior, female sporting body.
Becoming a Trans Athlete
First, participants had to decide how, and when, to come out as trans to coaches, teammates, and other athletic personnel. Most participants utilized email, social media, or group chats to come out to teammates, believing that virtual spaces could provide a buffer against harmful reactions. In terms of coaching staff, many athletes came out separately, citing additional anxieties about support. Furthermore, some participants were out as trans to family and friends, but actively chose not to come out within sport. Twenty-three-year-old Jasper (he/him), a former Division III women’s lacrosse player, explained: “I came out in an academic setting and with friends, but did not actually come out for much longer within the athletic realm because of how ... cisnormative and heteronormative the athletic spaces are.” In Jasper’s case, he waited to come out because of sport’s emphasis on the gender binary and assumed heterosexuality. Other participants who were already out as lesbian, bisexual, or queer noted how their sexuality influenced the coming out process. Twenty-six-year-old Cal (they/them), a former Division III squash player, recalled that they “saw the way that queer folks were excluded, and invisible, and erased,” which made them scared to come out. These excerpts highlight how pervasive discourses of heterosexuality and cisnormativity in sport informed participants’ experiences as trans.
When participants did come out, they emphasized the role of gender dysphoria and bodily discomfort. By coming out, these athletes were able to begin their social and medical transitions. Participants used the term “social transition” to mean changing names and pronouns and requesting reasonable accommodations, such as private bathrooms, changing rooms, or more masculine uniforms. All athletes had undergone some form of social transition. Charlie (he/him), a 20-year-old Division I softball player, explained why he socially transitioned: “I [couldn’t] handle it anymore. I’d get chest pains when people would deadname me.” Many participants expressed similar sentiments about the importance of names and pronouns, reflecting their extreme discomfort with the gender binary and femaleness of women’s sports. In terms of medical transition, two matters came to the forefront for these athletes: (a) pursuing “top surgery,” an umbrella term used to describe chest masculinization surgeries among trans-masculine individuals, such as a mastectomy and (b) beginning testosterone therapy. Several participants also mentioned “bottom surgery,” a term used to collectively refer to gender-affirming genital surgery. As I discuss, not all participants had undergone medical transition; 11 participants had started hormones, had top surgery, or both, while two participants had not undergone any form of medical transition, but wanted to at some point.
Throughout the coming out process, participants highlighted the importance of having supportive teammates, and coaches who were willing to learn, and grow, alongside them. Charlie described his two coaches as fierce advocates and explained that because they were gay, they were already familiar with the coming out process: “They didn’t even pause, they just went straight into being like ‘Thanks for telling us, we’re really excited to be there for you’ ... they were just all in from the start and they’ve been great.” Charlie recounted this moment as the “best coming out experience” he has ever had. Not all coaches were as informed; multiple participants noted that they were the first openly-trans athletes at their school, which often came with a learning curve. Nevertheless, the coaches’ willingness to learn and support trans athletes meant a lot to participants. Eli (he/him), a 22-year-old swimmer for an elite Division I university, explained: “There’s a lot of curiosity—but it comes from a place of wanting to learn, wanting to support, as opposed to backing away from something.” Likewise, Reece (he/him), a 23-year-old who swam at the Division III level, described his coach, Ann, as “a little old lady,” which influenced their relationship: “I never was so hard on her with pronouns and stuff, but she’d always try really hard, and that always meant a lot.” Despite this learning curve, these athletes recognized their coaches’ efforts, which were appreciated.
Participants also highlighted the role of their teammates in the coming out process and beyond. From practicing, traveling, and competing together for many hours per week, teammates often served as close friends and confidants. Several participants noted the importance of other queer teammates. In fact, 23-year-old Sam (he/they), who competed on an elite Division III women’s crew team, figured out that he was trans after one of his teammates came out: “[Transness] was kind of just a thing that became something people were aware of.” Although Sam was already out as a lesbian, the team’s response allowed him to feel more comfortable in his own identity. Similarly, Jasper noted, “If I were to join [a team] as a trans athlete, I would want it to have been lacrosse, because half the team was queer.” Multiple participants echoed the sentiment that while sport in general can be homophobic and transphobic, they felt safe on their teams. Dylan remembered that after switching to the men’s swim team, the captain reached out and said, “If anyone gives you shit ... you come to me and I will straighten them out.” This example highlights the importance of supportive relationships for these trans athletes, although it also points to the continued existence of hegemonic masculinity within sporting culture.
While participants identified having supportive coaches and teammates as key factors in allowing them to compete openly as trans, the act of coming out itself did not make decisions around collegiate sport any easier. Participants had to reconcile their longstanding identity as an athlete with their transgender identity, and many were worried about having to give up sport. Based on current NCAA guidelines, these trans-masculine athletes typically took one of three approaches after coming out: they could (a) socially transition and stay on a women’s team; (b) begin medical transition and switch to a men’s team; or (c) compete on a men’s team, with or without pursuing medical transition. Five participants had only competed on a women’s team, two athletes had only competed on a men’s team, and six athletes began on a women’s team, and switched to a men’s team. As Nick (he/they), a 26-year-old former Division III coxswain, lamented: “What I struggled with the most, with the ‘choosing’ to transition and go forth in becoming the person that I wanted to be, was the idea that I might have to lose my team.” Nick’s reconciliation between transitioning or losing his team highlights how the identities of trans and athlete become inseparable, and athletes’ decisions around their social and medical transition and participation in collegiate sport often fell at this intersection.
Inseparable Identities: Navigating (Trans)Gender and Sport
My gender means to me that I get to be a trans person in sport which is cool, but also I then get to say, “These are the things that make me feel good, this is how I want to live my life,” and swimming is part of that. And so they’re both related.
Others reflected on how sport informed their experiences before they officially came out, and their subsequent decisions around social and medical transition. Twenty-one-year-old Ben (he/him), a Division III runner, noted how he hid his transgender identity when he arrived at school. Three years later, his mentality has shifted, and now, Ben actively chooses to come out as trans: “It just felt like I wasn’t being honest with [my teammates] or myself, and there was a limit to how close I could get with somebody without telling them.” This reflection illustrates how Ben views his gender identity as integral to his identity as an athlete, both of which he brings to the locker room every day. Rather than being a trans-masculine individual and a collegiate athlete, participants’ experiences suggest that they navigate college sport as trans athletes. Below, I explore how this influenced the various pathways through college sport.
When competing on a women’s team, participants noted challenges with gendered language, clothing, and physical spaces. Chants and speeches, such as “Let’s go ladies!” or “You got it, girls!” were well-intentioned by their teammates and coaches, but often resulted in feelings of alienation and erasure. Additionally, clothing itself marked gender differences. Dylan recalled a situation in which an opposing coach became confused, remarking: “I have two [male] divers and one female diver. I think you guys made a mistake, because I see two women’s suits, and one men’s suit.” In this case, the mere act of wearing a certain uniform marked players as part of a women’s or a men’s team and a presumed gender identity. Overall, participants described feelings of discomfort with what is traditionally considered “women’s clothing,” including skirts, tank tops, and tight-fitting outfits. Finally, physical sporting spaces were highly gendered. For example, Cal noted that the women’s locker room “had a picture of a stick figure that wore a dress that did not reflect me.” Despite these challenges in women’s sports, participants often framed their intense love for sport as outweighing the discomfort of being in female spaces. Reece described how he was so uncomfortable in a women’s swimsuit and in the women’s locker room, but “the second I dove in the water, everything was OK.” These stories suggest that in some ways, participants were able to distance themselves from womanhood on a women’s team.
Some participants wanted to switch to a men’s team but did not. Jamie (he/him), a 22-year-old golfer at the Division II level, believed that he was too short to play with men and described his decision to stay on the women’s team: “I don’t have top surgery, I don’t have bottom surgery, I don’t have hormones, and I’m currently on a women’s team, so I can’t .... It’s really hard to choose between the sport that you love or transition.” While Jamie noted that he could possibly pursue top surgery, he did not want to miss a season due to the recovery process. As this quote suggests, although Jamie chose his love of golf over beginning his medical transition, he struggled with feeling like it was not a true choice. Similarly, Nick explained, “I chose to hold off on starting hormone replacement therapy because I wanted to stay with the teammates that I had.” Others did not have the option to switch teams, like Charlie, who plays softball, which does not have an NCAA-sanctioned men’s team. Charlie decided to postpone hormones because of the athletic and social benefits of playing softball. These participants knew that beginning testosterone meant losing their athletic eligibility on a women’s team and decided to prioritize sport over their transitions.
For other participants, the overwhelming femaleness of women’s sports negatively impacted their mental health and experiences in college sport to the extent that they sought medical transition or switched to a men’s team. However, these decisions were not easy. Multiple athletes noted the difficulty of leaving their longstanding success in women’s sports, like Dylan, who noted that initially postponed testosterone because he was “kind of close to some records” on the women’s team. Similarly, Eli remarked: “I was the high point scorer the season before ... it went against my athletic ethics to walk away.” Other athletes shared Eli’s dilemma, wrestling with giving up their role on a women’s team and questions of the unknown impacts on athletic performance. Moreover, while participants were excited at the prospect of beginning their medical transition, they were also concerned about their athletic performance. Many participants believed that taking testosterone would render their bodies “not female,” making a switch to the men’s team necessary and fair. However, as Sam lamented, taking testosterone did not immediately transform his body, and if he had known this, he would not have switched teams: “It did not do nearly as much as what I wanted .... I think that it needs to be well into a year for the body to catch up.” This echoes the existing research, which shows that the effects of testosterone on the body vary considerably between individuals (Jordan-Young & Karkazis, 2019). Sam also described his body as needing to “catch up,” reinforcing the popular conception that cisgender men are inherently superior athletes.
Regardless of athletic success, participants’ stories suggest that there can be affirming and empowering aspects of navigating gender transition alongside sport. Reece had undergone top surgery at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic and recalled returning to the pool: “I didn’t anticipate top surgery changing my personal perception of myself as much as it did, and it changed it all positively.” In Reece’s case, top surgery allowed him to finally feel comfortable looking in the mirror, and he subsequently decided to start testosterone and switch to the men’s locker room. This example illustrates how Reece’s decisions around sport were heavily influenced by gender, and the decision to medically transition positively influenced his subsequent experiences in sport. Similarly, although Ben was one of the slower runners on the men’s team, he described the experience as positive and “really healing.” He was even voted team captain, suggesting that he garnered respect from his teammates and coaches regardless of his athletic performance. Overall, experiences of gender euphoria, such as going shirtless, using the locker room, and wearing the men’s uniform, were framed as positive hallmarks of sport and gratifying experiences for these athletes.
“It’s Just Easier”: The Trans-Masculine Experience
Many of these trans-masculine athletes emphasized how their physical bodies influenced the interactions with teammates, coaches, and athletic personnel. For example, 20-year-old Noah (he/him), is a Division III coxswain who has not yet begun medical transition. Although he is on a men’s team, he lamented that he sometimes feels disconnected from his teammates: “They just don’t really see me necessarily fully as one of them ... I don’t mean like [as] a team member, but one of the guys.” Noah’s perceptions of how others view his height, slight frame, and high-pitched voice illustrates how certain physical characteristics are important in marking a body “male.” In contrast, Jasper, who competed exclusively on a women’s team, had the opposite problem. Although he was not taking hormones, he hypothesized that referees treated him differently due to his size and height, standing at 5′10″: “I think people viewed me as a really masculine, physical person. And so I do think that I got called [penalized] a lot for stuff that my teammates didn’t get called for.” Jasper was not sure if the referees knew he was trans, but because most other players were smaller, he believed that his height and weight caused him to be seen as more masculine. His statement references the notion that female athletes are typically viewed as smaller and weaker compared with cisgender male athletes.
While Noah and Jasper highlight divergent experiences within sport, participants overwhelmingly shared the sentiment that they had it “easier” than their trans-feminine counterparts. As highlighted in Figure 1 below, these participants believed that they were privileged due to their identities as trans-masculine and situated themselves within NCAA policy that allowed them easier access to sport. These quotes suggest that the trans-masculine experience in the NCAA is facilitated through athletic policy and public discourse that renders their bodies female and therefore not a threat to competition, unlike their trans-feminine counterparts, who face additional restrictions to compete. As Jamie remarked, “I don’t think anyone really looks at trans men as competition because we are biologically female.” Similarly, Dylan, who had recently switched to the men’s team, quipped that the NCAA’s view on trans-masculine athletes was, “Go compete against the boys; you’re going to lose, anyway.” These excerpts underscore how participants recognized how sport’s emphasis on the gender binary and sex difference upholds the notion of the inferior female athlete compared with cisgender men. Participants also expressed frustration with the emphasis on testosterone levels. As Jasper stated: “We’re so focused on hormones that we discount cis women for being really fucking good at sports,” which again suggests that female-bodied athletes are inferior. This emphasis on testosterone is also problematic as not all trans people pursue medical transition or align with the gender binary (Spade, 2006).
—Reflections on being trans-masculine.
Citation: Sociology of Sport Journal 41, 4; 10.1123/ssj.2024-0008
Throughout the coming out process and decisions around sport and transition, participants’ experiences highlight the importance of trans-masculine identity. As Dylan had noted, he was “the kind of trans they don’t care about.” However, the act of Dylan carrying around a folder that he has never needed, but makes him feel safer, likewise illustrates how trans-masculine athletes navigated sport alongside NCAA policy. Although participants described their experiences as easier than trans-feminine athletes, navigating sport as a trans-masculine athlete was still a complex process. As 21-year-old Jordan (they/he), a Division III swimmer, put it, “It’s a lot to be a trans athlete,” noting the broader struggles of going through “surgery and hormones and transphobia and everything else.” Three participants explicitly wished for a “DIY guide” for trans athletes to navigate college sport, helping them learn about NCAA requirements, sport-specific policies, and to complete paperwork, which they felt was not common knowledge. While these trans-masculine participants expressed gratitude that they had it “easier” compared with trans-feminine athletes, their experiences were nonetheless different from their cisgender teammates. Overall, these findings conflict with the common sentiment that trans men are overlooked, instead illustrating the numerous ways in which these athletes undertook additional labor to remain in sport: NCAA requirements including repeated hormone testing, medical exemptions, and in certain sports, clothing waivers, which would allow these athletes to wear a men’s uniform without being seen as having a competitive advantage.
Discussion and Conclusion
The experiences of these 13 trans-masculine athletes competing in the NCAA highlight the convergence of questions surrounding their trans identities and how to remain in sport. During the coming out process and beyond, participants’ (trans)gender identities, and identities as an athlete, became inseparable and mutually constituting. I found that they truly experienced sport as trans athletes: decisions around social and medical transitions impacted their experiences in sport, and simultaneously, their participation in collegiate sport informed their decisions around social and medical transition. My research aligns with prior research, which has demonstrated the complexities of navigating gender transition alongside sport (Elling-Machartzki, 2017; McCormack & Hanold, 2017; Semerjian & Cohen, 2006), and provides additional nuances to this experience within competitive sporting spaces. Nevertheless, participants’ experiences of inclusion and support also suggest that, at the very least, recognition of trans and queer identities is becoming more commonplace. This builds on recent research, which has suggested that trans individuals can, and do, have positive experiences within sport (Elling-Machartzki, 2017; Martins et al., 2023).
Additionally, my findings point to the importance of being trans-masculine, complementing the prior literature, which has focused on the “threat” of the trans-feminine athlete and the longstanding association between the testosterone-driven body and athleticism (Bianchi, 2017; Jordan-Young & Karkazis, 2019; Safer, 2022). Indeed, the experiences of trans-masculine athletes stand in stark contrast to their trans-feminine counterparts: the NCAA policy that allows them to compete on a women’s team until starting testosterone renders their bodies “female” and, thus, not a threat to sport. While these athletes were able to switch to a men’s team at any time, their experiences suggest that they were not seen as truly male or competitive within men’s sports. Throughout their collegiate careers, some athletes postponed medical transition to continue competing on a women’s team, which was often shaped by the desire for athletic success and to continue longstanding relationships with teammates and coaches. Others placed more emphasis on their own medical transitions and switched to the men’s team, despite the varied timelines of medical transition. Overall, these athletes did not challenge hegemonic notions of gendered athleticism but instead attempted to situate their own experiences of transgender embodiment within the existing gender binary of sport.
Ultimately, these experiences should be interpreted against the backdrop of interlocking networks of support and governance of the collegiate athlete, including individual teammates and coaches, school-level policy, and the NCAA. While not the primary targets of policies targeting trans athlete participation, participants were acutely aware of the proliferation of antitrans legislation, and they were nonetheless impacted by public discourse and policy. Seemingly small NCAA policy requirements, including hormone testing, medical exemptions, and increased paperwork, illustrate how participants experienced sport differently than their cisgender teammates (Ingram & Thomas, 2019; NCAA, 2023). Moreover, although they described their access to NCAA sport as “easier” than for trans-feminine athletes, participants also lamented the restrictions against trans athletes overall due to a lack of data and limited scientific knowledge on the role of hormones. This complements Sharrow’s (2023) description of antitrans public policy as trans harm and the cautions by Adjepong and Travers (2023) that antitrans athletic policy that has targeted trans-feminine individuals is increasingly impacting trans-masculine, nonbinary, and other gender-diverse athletes within sport.
While this sample provides insight into how trans-masculine athletes experience college sport, the study is limited in scope and suggests several avenues for future research. First, studies should examine the experiences of trans youth and other levels of competitive sport, which rely on various degrees of gendered categories. Second, future studies must center the experiences of trans-feminine athletes. Although trans-feminine participation continues to be highly debated, and the increased barriers in accessing sport are well-known, there is a dearth of empirical research to back up the claims that they have an overwhelming competitive advantage. Third, prior research demonstrates that athletes of color often experience stigma and discrimination within collegiate sport (Hextrum, 2020), and trans athletes of color are especially scrutinized (Brown, 2015). All but one participant in this study is White, so future research should prioritize studying trans athletes of color to investigate how multiple marginalizations impact their experiences. Finally, studies might also examine the role of socioeconomic status in shaping both trans athletes’ access to competitive sport, as well as gender transition.
Overall, the experiences of these trans-masculine athletes navigating college sport call attention to how the updated 2023 NCAA transgender policy continues to rely on a gender binary rooted in sex difference and is limited in its inclusion of all trans individuals. Trans-inclusive policy must acknowledge those who do not pursue medical transition, as well as the trans youth whose access to gender-affirming medical care is being increasingly restricted (Brightman et al., 2023). While the NCAA is increasingly aligned with elite-level sport (NCAA, 2023), not all sport is shaped to the same degree by competition. To believe that all trans women will dominate and no trans men will remain competitive overemphasizes the role of sex difference and disregards how competitive advantage is overwhelmingly praised for cisgender athletes: for example, Michael Phelps is glorified for his height, wingspan, and joint mobility (Bianchi, 2017). Working toward the inclusion of all athletes, transgender and cisgender alike, requires reframing the role of competition and destabilizing the gender binary premised on sex difference that underpins modern sport.
Notes
Participants have been assigned pseudonyms—in alignment with age, gender, and ethnicity—to protect confidentiality.
The NCAA’s first transgender participation policy was passed in 2010.
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