Many people who feel conflicted by the labels society imposes upon them feel an affinity with mermaids. Whether it’s in pop cultural history or in the depths of mythology, you’ll find amphibious figures who’ve long tread the in-between worlds of sea and land — from Bella Hadid in a recent Jean Paul Gaultier ad to Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, which tells the story of a half-woman, half-fish who felt out of place underwater, and thus embarked on a journey of self-initiated transformation. They are, in many respects, creatures synonymous with beauty, possibility and freedom.
It’s no surprise, then, that people who feel sidelined in their own lives are drawn to them. Over the past few years, these mythical sirens have become the source material for an entire subculture: a space in which gender, race, size or sexuality don’t matter. Here, folks wear extravagant silicone tails and free dive in open water, just as mermaids would, shapeshifting beyond the limits of their human forms. Welcome to the world of mermaiding.
While its popularity may have recently spiked, mermaiding in fact has a proud history. It’s been a key part of cosplay culture for decades, and as far back as 1983, Coney Island USA has hosted an annual artists’ gathering dubbed the Mermaid Parade, where members of the LGBTQIA+ community dress up as more-is-more, glitterbombed mermaids. More recently, mermaid conventions like MerMagic Con, which happens annually in Washington DC, and competitions like the World Mermaid Championship – last held pre-pandemic in 2019 – have acted as hubs for the geographically dispersed community. While mermaiding’s IRL tailprint may seem modest, it’s another story entirely online: the TikTok hashtag #mermaiding has over 79 million views.
Due to the spread-out nature of the community, however, mermaids often create ‘pods’ — smaller groups that allow members to find a safe space beyond conventional social gatherings. Pods function much like any other friendship group — they meet to celebrate birthdays and for casual dinners; to swim together and for virtual crafternoons — bound by the shared feeling of being different to the outside world.
They’re also crucial spaces for self-discovery. Dalestair Kidd, an Adelaide-based fashion influencer and Twitch streamer who goes by the underwater ‘mersona’ Mermaid Salacia, remembers the start of their mermaiding journey in 2018 as the time when they truly grew into their non-binary identity. “The first people I ever came out to were my friends in my pod,” Dalestair says. “They surprised me with a fin with my pronouns on it… that gesture meant ‘We acknowledge and love you’.” They compare their pod to a drag family: “a close-knit circle of chosen members – except instead of ball culture, we have mermaiding.”
Since the mythical creature is always imagined with a tail below its waist — without any mention of genitalia — mermaiding has long been a subculture open to people of any gender identity or expression. Gender non-conforming and trans individuals are notably well-represented within the community, and are often drawn to it by the possibility to self-identify and creatively express themselves. Queen Pangke Tabora, a trans Filipino mermaid, started a mermaiding school called DIVERSity in Manila to nurture this idea of autonomy, choice and sisterhood. “I finally felt I could be myself in the mermaiding community and as a trans-coach, I want to encourage others to express themselves freely,” she says, noting that the adult student body at her diving school primarily comprises cis women and trans individuals.
Of course, the contemporary renaissance of mermaiding is rooted in a deeper historical undercurrent. Sacha Coward, a British historian who studies the impact of folklore and mythology in shaping queer history, has seen mermaids emerge in his research time and again. From the Syrian goddess Atargatis, who was castrated and revered as a mermaid, to lesbian Greek poet Sappho, who strongly associating herself with them, what we’re witnessing today is a full circle moment of sorts. By wearing these tails, he says, you’re creating something you cannot look away from, in the hope that people, if they stare long enough, will finally see the human beneath. “With the present rise of homophobia and transphobia when we’re being made to feel like monsters, the mermaid is a visually stunning metaphor of a creature who was also ‘othered’,” he says. “Mermaiding is a way of reclaiming the tag monster as something pure, magical and unharmful.”
But that act of reclamation often comes with a material cost. Popular international diving certifications like PADI and SSI provide specialised mermaiding lessons because, like any other form of swimming, it can be a dangerous activity in open waters. Then there are the custom silicone tails, which usually weigh about 10-15 kilos and cost upward of £1500. While many merfolk use fabric or neoprene tails that cost less, they are unsafe to swim in, and thus don’t provide those who wear them with the freeing experience those with a larger disposable income can afford. Then comes the arduous process of putting on the tail. It can take up to 25 minutes to properly fit into the merfolk tail, but they often need an assistant or mer-wrangler to help them get to the water in their costume.
An added factor is that, for all its inclusivity, mermaiding gear isn’t particularly accommodating when it comes to size. It’s something Che Monique, a Washington-based mermaid who once struggled to find any princesses that looked like her, has sought to address. In 2018, she spotted a gap in the market and decided to create the Society of Fat Mermaids, a community and business that sells mermaid merchandise for plus-sized merfolk. At a recent convention, Che met Hillary, a plus-sized woman who began her mermaiding journey after being inspired by the pictures and personal stories posted on the society’s group by other mers who look like her.
“All my life I was told I had to lose weight to do things,” Che says, recalling her grandmother saying that she wouldn’t buy her a wedding dress until she did so. “In America, we act like it’s okay to discriminate against fat people even though we’re a majority. I want to change that.
“I also want to remind the Black community who are often caught up in survival that it is okay to let their hair down in the water and be silly,” Che adds. Each time she records a birthday message for a child, performs at a party or posts a picture of a Black, fat mermaid on the society’s social media pages, she hopes to invite more people in. In turn, the niche industry she’s a part of has changed: Che has noticed that several commercial costume-makers, including Mertailor and Finfolk Productions, have diversified their designs in an effort to include people with larger chests, expanding their sizes to 3-4X.
Instances of progress like these speak to the foundational ethics of mermaiding. As Dalestair says, “fish see no difference”. In these iridescent, jewel-toned tails, merfolk transform their outsider-persona into something special. Now, when someone stares a little longer than usual, it comes not from a place of gawkish disapproval, but of real appreciation.