Wearing a Bra: Still the Most Toxic Relationship I Have

Introduction: The Straps That Bind

There are plenty of toxic relationships we talk about these days—bad breakups, jobs that suck the soul out of you, questionable friendships held together by memes and mutual complaints. But there’s one deeply personal, long-standing relationship I’ve been in for decades, and no matter how many times I try to walk away, I always get pulled back in—literally.

The bra.

She lifts me up, lets me down, digs into my ribs, gaslights me with lace, and costs way too much for something I rip off the second I walk through the front door. I don’t even know when we became exclusive, but somehow, society convinced me I needed this clingy, underwired "support system" in order to be presentable, confident, or even functional.

And yet—just like any toxic partner—she's always there, lurking in my top drawer, promising comfort while delivering discomfort in multiple sizes.

Chapter 1: The Honeymoon Phase – AKA Middle School Delusion

Let’s rewind to the start of our relationship: the first bra.

Mine was a cotton sports bra with a pastel butterfly stitched on it. I was 11, flat as a pancake, and euphoric. I had finally crossed into the mysterious land of “womanhood,” or at least into the aisle of training bras at Target.

I wore it proudly under every shirt, even though I didn’t need it. It was itchy, slightly too tight, and made me feel mature, like I was part of a secret club. Looking back, it’s wild how early we're conditioned to accept discomfort as part of "growing up."

Chapter 2: Underwire and Underwhelming Promises

As I moved into my teen years, my relationship with bras became more complicated. The bras got fancier—padded, push-up, underwire, demi-cup, racerback—and my expectations grew. Every ad I saw promised me more than just support. These bras were meant to make me irresistible, empowered, and confident.

Spoiler: they did not.

What they did do was:

Dig red lines into my shoulders
Leave mysterious bruises under my bust
Require contortions to fasten
Cost more than a nice dinner, despite being made from fabric scraps and lies

They were tight where I needed breathing room and loose where I needed structure. One size never fit the same between brands. Cups gaped. Straps slid. The underwire squeaked. I was in a committed relationship with a partner who did nothing for me—but I still kept showing up.

**Chapter 3: The Gaslighting Phase – “But You Need Me”**

Here’s where the toxicity becomes subtle. Society tells us, “You can’t go out like that.” Meaning? Braless. Natural. Comfortable.

Somehow, nipples became public enemy number one. Forget climate change or social unrest—God forbid someone sees a faint outline under your shirt. The entire bra industry is built on a single premise: women need to be contained.

We’ve internalized it so deeply that we’ll:

Wear a bra to bed (why?!)
Wear one under a sports bra (double torture)
Apologize for “not wearing one” around friends or family

Meanwhile, 80% of us are walking around wearing the wrong size, according to almost every lingerie brand ever. (Which is weird, considering they’re the ones sizing us.)

Why do we keep showing up to this toxic partner who:

Doesn’t fit properly
Hurts us physically
Costs a fortune
Isn’t even necessary all the time?

Because, like any manipulative relationship, it’s hard to leave when the world around you keeps whispering, “But what will people think?”

Chapter 4: The Breakups (and Glorious Rebounds)

I've tried breaking up with bras several times. The most notable split? The pandemic. For many of us, it was the Great Unhooking of 2020. No office. No social functions. No need for cleavage. I lived in oversized sweatshirts and never looked back.

I discovered:

Bralettes are angels wrapped in fabric
Going braless doesn’t mean instant sag
My posture didn’t crumble
No one cared as much as I thought they would

In fact, I found new self-confidence in embracing comfort. I stopped measuring myself against unrealistic lingerie ads and started listening to my own body. Turns out, she didn’t want to be squeezed like a panini 12 hours a day.

Of course, like any complicated love affair, the bra snuck back in occasionally—for work events, weddings, or shirts that scream “something has to go under me.”

But those were flings. Not long-term commitments.

Chapter 5: The Emotional Toll of Constant Support

Here’s the hidden cost of bra life that no one talks about: the mental energy.

Picking the right one for an outfit
Adjusting straps throughout the day
Sneakily unhooking it in public just to breathe
Dealing with the existential dread of strapless bras

Every morning it’s a negotiation: Will I be physically free but socially self-conscious? Or caged in but “put together”?

Why do we act like this is normal?

The emotional labor of “keeping things perky” just to meet a beauty standard we didn’t invent is exhausting. Imagine if men were expected to hoist their bits into structured fabric to be taken seriously in a boardroom. Please.

Chapter 6: What "Support" Should Really Mean

Let’s redefine the relationship. A truly supportive partner doesn’t:

Hurt you
Drain your wallet
Force you into shapes you didn’t ask for
Judge you for being natural

Real support feels effortless. It doesn’t demand constant maintenance. It doesn’t shame you when you take a break. And above all, it respects your boundaries (and ribcage).

So why settle for less from a bra?

If I wear one now, it’s because I choose to. Maybe it’s a soft crop top, a breathable bralette, or something that doesn’t make me want to scream by hour three. But I no longer do it out of obligation. That’s not support—that’s coercion with elastic.

Chapter 7: What We Deserve Instead

We deserve better than underwire Stockholm Syndrome.

We deserve:

Comfortable options that fit all shapes and sizes
Brands that don’t just cater to cup sizes A-D
Models that reflect real boobs: saggy, asymmetrical, wide-set, post-breastfeeding
The right to opt-out of bras entirely without judgment

We deserve clothing that doesn’t require a bra to look good. (Why is every summer dress designed for a backless bra forged in the depths of discomfort?)

And most of all, we deserve the choice to say: “No thanks. Not today.”

Conclusion: Love Me, Love My Boobs—Unrestrained

Bras will probably always be a part of my life, like an ex I bump into at weddings or reluctantly call when I need a plus-one. But I’ve stopped pretending we’re in a healthy relationship.

These days, I wear one only when I want to—not because I think I have to. And that shift, as small as it sounds, is radical in a world that’s spent decades telling women to tuck it in, lift it up, cover it up, keep it tight.

My most supportive relationship now? Me, myself, and my unapologetic, occasionally uncontained chest.

And trust me: it’s the healthiest I’ve ever felt.