"A letter to my first bra: what you taught me about support."

Image: iStock. 

Dear bra,

It’s me, your former owner.

A lot has changed since we last saw each other. I’m not sure if you’ll recognise me; the puffy bits of baby fat under my armpits are gone, my buck teeth finally grew into my face, and I’ve learnt how to keep my acne situation at bay (mostly). I can see how these changes would be confusing for you.

I remember where we first met, you and I. It was on level two of MYER. Amidst the racks of racy lingerie and fun-coloured training bras, you sat near the sports bras, in the world of the nude-coloured wireless varieties. And there I was in all my glory, dressed in my primary school polo shirt and maroon skorts, with regular white socks masquerading as their cooler ankle counterpart: an 11-year-old baked potato with bulging B-cup boobie-bulbs.

If I’m completely honest with you, you weren’t my first choice. I was eyeing off the white crop tops that all the other girls were wearing. You remember them – the cool ones with spaghetti straps that showed under our sports uniforms, the ones that made everyone feel trendy and grown-up.

But those weren’t made for the likes of us. Those were made for the small, petite girls: the delicate butterflies who did ballet, ate white-bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and smelt like magical unicorn dust à la impulse fragrances borrowed from older sisters.

Slight, elfin, ultra-feminine girls. But I was none of those things.

Unusually tall, developed and awkward, my Eastern-European body was already prepping me for a life of baby-making. As was my grandmother, who fed me a diet of meat, potato and cabbage – salt of the earth, if you will.

Those crop tops didn’t support my burgeoning frame. I needed something that would holster more than a pair of mosquito bites on a flat chest.

As a result of my spud-like body and matching kahunas, the connection you and I had needed to be far more… full-bodied.

It was actually my all-knowing, big-breasted mother who led me to you. If it’s any consolation, you were her first (and only) choice.

She fell for your strength of character:
It’s got thick straps so it’s supportive.

She thought you were attractive:
It’s beige, so you can wear it under everything.

And she knew you would NEVER hurt me:
There’s no underwire in it so it won’t damage your breast tissue.

But young, ignorant me longed for another:
“Muuuuum, it’s soo UGLY. Can I at least get a black one?”

But mother always knows best:
You’ll get one and you’ll be grateful. And you can wear black once you’re married.

And you know what, bra? She knew.

She knew that I would be running around on the playground every lunchtime, busy on my feet in the classroom, playing on jumping castles at birthday parties, and you’d always have my back - you’d always remain on the same designated spot on my mid-back all day long.

And you did. But I was never appreciative.

When I moved onto high school, there were a whole new set of rules: it was all about prints, frills, PADDING, push up, low cut, half-cup, low back, convertible straps, no straps.

Our relationship couldn’t hold up under the pressure of my new-found expectations – even though you always kept my cantaloupes afloat. Though we probably shouldn’t have been together for that long (three years) anyway.

More than a decade later, you’re back in my head, hot on my mind.

It’s not that there haven’t been others – there’ve been countless: some supportive (most not); some were a good fit, but most rubbed me the wrong way. There were even one or two special ones… but as the tired Hollywood plotline goes, you always come running back to your first.

Now as a real person with a real person job, adulting out in the big world, my desire to boost my bra-status amongst my peers has gone out the window. Instead, I’m putting my own needs first.

My most recent bra-venture led me straight to someone a lot like you: someone who gives me support every day, while not compromising on mobility and agility; someone who makes me feel comfortable whenever we’re together, but also still respects my need for inconspicuity, and is happy to keep our relationship on the down-low in public – even if I choose to wear a mildly-transparent white t-shirt to work.

But here’s the thing, bra: while my new relationship has made me appreciate everything I never realised I had with you, it’s also a better version than you.

A 2.0 version of you.

The you with more hair and a better paying job.

While you had so many great qualities, the older I get, the more I realise that I’m way too good to be settling for someone I just appreciate: I want to be flirted with, wined and dined; I want to see fireworks, the whole shebang.

I want to fall. In. LOVE.

My new you is still wireless, but with an updated form that’s body hugging and flattering, he makes me feel comfortable and sexy. He’s also luxurious – and way easier on the eye –so I feel more comfortable having him on show and introducing him to my friends than I ever did with you.
He also lifts, if you know what I mean...

So I just wanted to say thank you, bra, for everything you were, flaws and all. You opened my eyes to the possibilities of what could be, and what I could have. You taught me that supportive relationships needn’t be single-faceted, and they definitely shouldn’t be loveless.

Most of all, the difficulties of our relationship made me realise that I deserve so much more than you. And you know what? I’m not going to settle for anything less.

How did you find the perfect bra for you?