I went braless for a day, here’s how it went

Pardon the pun, but I need to get this off my chest.

Bras are a basic fact of my existence. I’ve never really questioned why, each and every day, I slip one on as I’m getting dressed. Ever since my mum bought me my very first bra when I was 12 (not that I needed it), I’ve always loved lingerie shopping.

Sometimes I like to buy an expensive set from Victoria’s Secret or Honey Birdette for no reason (or maybe I just like channelling my inner Miranda Kerr and pretending I’m on the 2006 Victoria’s Secret runway). But  two years of lockdowns changed things.

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I found I felt my best on the days that I could wander around the house in a loose sweatshirt and forgo any bra at all. More and more, I found myself reaching for my comfy, plain underwear – because let’s face it, ‘nice’ lingerie is a hassle more than anything else. The underwire digs into your ribcage, the lace gets itchy, the straps slip down, or one of your breasts decides to go rogue and just pops out the top or the side (yeah, we’ve all been there).

I have little B-cup breasts, and because most clothing labels design their tops and dresses specifically for smaller-boobed women (which is a whole other issue), I don’t really need the support of a bra. Plus, ever since I started re-watching Friends and admiring all of Rachel’s clothes, I’ve come to realise that nipples can actually elevate an outfit.

I also hate that it’s considered ‘proper’ and ‘modest’ to wear a bra. I grew up in a conservative family, so most of my teenage years were spent carefully selecting bras that would cover up my nipples without accentuating my cleavage (because God forbid anyone should know that women have breasts).

So, after a bit of um-ing and ah-ing, I decided to see what it would be like to go braless for a day. Here’s how it went.

I started small and just went for a walk around my neighbourhood wearing a pair of leggings and a semi-fitted, long-sleeve top. Admittedly, leaving the house felt a bit strange. It almost felt like going out without brushing my teeth. But there was no one on my street at that point, so I persevered.

I was just starting to feel at ease with myself when I finally reached the park. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. I saw quite a few people’s eyes flicker down to my chest momentarily, and I instantly felt judged – as though showing my nipples through my clothing was a way of outwardly flaunting my sexuality.

It suddenly felt beyond inappropriate. A hot feeling of shame spread across my skin; I lowered my eyes and trained my gaze stubbornly on the pavement in front of me. Within a few minutes, I’d crossed my arms over my chest, and power walked the hell out of there.

It wasn’t a fantastic experience but I put some of it down to my own insecurity. ‘You just need to get used to it,’ I told myself. ‘Some of it’s probably just in your head.’ So a little while later, I tried again. It was a friend’s birthday, and we were going out for dinner and drinks in the city.

I had a fitted, backless dress that I’d been wanting to wear for a while, but I’d never gotten around to buying more stick-on cups to cover my boobs. I put the dress on, cast one last forlorn look at the bra sitting on top of my dresser, and left it behind.

At first, I barely noticed anything. I met my friend, we took the train into the city, and amidst our excited chatter, I forgot that I wasn’t wearing a bra. It was quite freeing, really. I expected to feel a little bit exposed, especially given my last experience. But what happened next wasn’t something I was prepared for.

When I stepped off the train and into a throng of city-goers, I felt like I may as well have been walking around naked. When I walked past men in particular, I felt as though my nipples were an open invitation for them to stare shamelessly at my breasts. It was like I was walking around with a sign across my chest.

Even that would’ve been better because at least my chest would’ve been covered by something. This feeling of shame was so intense that I found myself wondering why I was so embarrassed. And more importantly, why haven’t I gone braless again since?

There’s always been something about women’s nipples that society finds inherently offensive. While men can walk around shirtless on the street, at the beach, and in the gym without so much as a second glance it’s considered the height of embarrassment for women to experience a ‘nip slip’ in public, and downright inappropriate for a mother to breastfeed her hungry baby unless she covers herself up or hides away from prying eyes.

I thought we’d made more progress than this, to be honest. The Free the Nipple campaign, which aimed to destigmatise women’s bodies and nudity, was 10 years ago. How come it’s okay to see a woman’s cleavage in advertisements for lingerie, perfume and bedsheets, or whatever else is being sold to us, but the sight of a woman’s nipples poking through her T-shirt in real life is offensive?

It feels like marketing campaigns are weaponising women’s desire to express their sexuality in order to sell us something, and then use that as so-called ‘evidence’ that society has progressed. We’re often told that women are not objectified anymore, that slut-shaming is a thing of the past – when in reality, a bare midriff, a short skirt, or exposed nipples still warrant being stared at or catcalled on the streets.

More than anything, I hate that I’ve internalised this shame and I’m sick of being viewed as the sum of my parts. So in spite of my experience, I’m determined to try again.

This article was originally published on February 24, 2023.

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