I have big boobs and was fitted for a bra for the first time in years, here’s how it went

“Much like getting a teeth clean at the dentist, or trimming my split ends, being professionally fitted for a bra was something I’d been avoiding for some time.“

I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody who enjoys the experience of being fitted for a bra. Much like shopping for jeans, buying a bra incites a very deep, almost primal fear in me. As someone with a small waist, huge boobs and even bigger hips, shopping for anything can be downright frustrating. Bra shopping can be particularly tricky as the whole nudity component of trying on lingerie means that there’s plenty of scope for awkward misunderstandings. 

I’ve been getting fitted for bras since I was eleven years old, when I completely skipped the crop-top phase and went straight to a C-cup. I remember this day vividly because, later on, my mum also bought me my first ever roll-on deodorant and a Kaz Cooke-esque book about my changing body. I’d stay a C-cup for maybe a year or two, before jumping up to a DD-cup at the beginning of high school, and then an F-cup in year nine. 

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When I say that finding out I was an F-cup was devastating, I’m not joking. It seemed absurd and unfair. Who knew bras went bigger than an F-cup, anyway? And, what did the F stand for? Was it ‘F’ for freak? Finding out that my new bra size meant I would no longer be catered for at the local department stores, and would instead be forced to shop at a specialty bra shop – where the straps were thick and daggy, and the prices were somehow three times the cost of a standard bra – added another layer of devastation. 

Throughout adulthood, I’ve hovered around an F or G cup, and at my last fitting in 2019 at a dingy outlet store, I was a 16F. Since then, I’ve largely fitted myself for bras. Sure, they didn’t always fit quite right, but I wouldn’t be at the mercy of a middle-aged woman named Susan or Liz whose perpetually cold hands clutched tightly at measuring tape and fiddled with clasps. 

Then, after the pandemic hit, I decided to do away with bras altogether and become a bralette girl. These flimsy pieces of fabric didn’t offer anything in the way of support but, god, were they comfy. My breasts definitely looked more pendulous than ever, but I was comfortable. That bubble eventually had to come to an end, though, and some outfits require a traditional, wired bra, which is how I found myself being fitted for a bra last week.

Much like getting a teeth clean at the dentist, or trimming my split ends, being professionally fitted for a bra was something I’d been avoiding for some time. Mostly because I knew the cost would cripple me financially, but also because, despite this bra shop catering to fuller-busted women, the selection available is still pretty gaudy and mature. At least, it was the last time I went there… nearly a decade ago. It was with all of this in mind, that I stumbled into my first bra fitting in four years.

I sheepishly walked into the bra emporium and asked, in a hushed tone, if someone could please fit me for a bra. From there, I was shepherded into a brightly lit fitting room that had three categorised hooks to hang one’s try-ons: love, not sure, not keeping. My bra fitter was a kind, bubbly woman, who made me feel completely at ease. She asked me to show her what bra I was currently wearing, so that she could visually “fit” me for a bra, and asked what style I wanted. I was looking for a black balconette. It’s a sexy shape, and I quite like how it sits under clothing. 

She nodded, disappeared to the shop floor, and re-emerged with a black lacy plunge bra in a size 18HH. From there, she closed the curtain while I took off the bralette I was wearing, and explained to me that I should tell her when I’m ready for her to come back in. I replied, “Okay” (as in, I understood what she meant) but she thought I meant “Okay, I’m ready for you to come in”. She opened the curtain and I hunched over to cover my breasts, which dangled below me like a cow’s udders, screeching “Oh no!”. She quickly shut the curtain and I finished putting the bra on. 

I tried to recover some of my dignity that I’d lost when I squealed like an old cartoon elephant who’d seen a mouse and said “Sorry about that. I said ‘Okay’, and that might have been a bit confusing.” She clicked her tongue and said, “Oh, that’s far too big.” She was right. The un-moulded lace cups hung off of my chest like a chewing gum bubble right after popping, limp and deflated. I’d never seen a bra look too big on me. It was borderline unnerving. She left and re-emerged with another bra, this time in a 16H.

This bra fit almost perfectly, though the salesperson assured me that the fit was indeed perfect. I had worried it was too roomy at the bottom of the cup but was told that this was how it was supposed to sit. I was sceptical but figured that this woman was the bra fitting expert so I should just trust what she said. I smiled and said, “Yeah, this fits well” and she replied “It does, doesn’t it? I normally get it right the first time but it was hard to tell with that bralette.” I gave an obligatory laugh and asked if she had anything in pink or red, as I was going to a party in a few days and needed something to match my outfit. 

This final, pink bra was my favourite out of the three that I’d tried. I was surprised she’d shown me a balconette, like I originally asked. She’d just finished telling me that she wouldn’t recommend one for me because my shoulders were too narrow and the straps would likely slide off. I ended up purchasing the final two bras, parting ways with $174 and wearing one out of the store. I looked down as I walked out and was surprised to see two completely separated breasts instead of a squashed uni-boob. In my head, I joked that I could take someone’s eye out with one of these things and wondered ‘Who knew this is what my boobs could look like!?‘. 

As the day wore on, the underwire began to dig into my ribs and I thought, ‘No worries, this is probably just your body getting used to wearing an underwire again.‘ I resolved to stick it out, but this didn’t stop me from taking my bra off like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance (while wearing clothes, removed through the sleeve of one’s shirt) as soon as I got to my friend’s house. I said “I just found out I’m a fucking H cup” and my friend, an A cup on her period, said, “Oh, Sienna, I’m so sorry.” We laughed. 

The next day I wore the bra that had the slightly too-big-at-the-bottom cups and was in excruciating pain by lunchtime. There was no way this bra fit correctly. I checked the website’s terms and conditions, and found that once worn, the bras were non-refundable and thought ‘Fuck, there goes nearly $200’. I took photos of my sore, bruised ribs and sent an email to their customer service team, begging for some kind of solution. As I attached my proof of purchase, I saw that the pink bra was actually a size 16GG, not a 16H like I’d been advised.

The customer service team got back to me, agreeing to let me come in for another fitting to exchange my ill-fitting bra. They also suggested that next time, I should wear the bra for half an hour before removing the tags to make sure the fit is correct. Given that the tag had been attached via safety pin, I wondered why I hadn’t lied and said I’d done this the entire time. 

All in all, I haven’t changed my attitude toward getting fitted for a bra. It’s awkward and expensive and you can potentially walk out with something that won’t actually fit you. However, like going to the dentist, it’s just something you have to do. My advice for anyone getting fitted for a bra would be to be assertive in asking for what you want, speak up if you don’t think something is working for you, and when in doubt, don’t purchase. Oh, and if you’re in doubt, wear the bra at home for 30 minutes before taking the tags off. Or just remember exactly where the tag went, wear it and go with god.

For more advice on finding the right bra for you, try this.