If The Bra Fits...

I know what you’re thinking…what does my bra have to do with self-actualisation? For that matter…why would somebody use up their energy to write about such a thing? Well, I’m not really sure either. However, I am currently engaged in a quest to find out such a thing. If you will allow me to take you to a moment on the 4th January 2019, I can begin to explain how I arrived at such a thought.

There I am, in the centre of London, standing fully topless in a large changing room, getting my first, proper bra fitting. No tape measures required, just an expert judgment and trained eye. I hear the easy conversation of an American woman in the adjacent room, laughing away with her ‘bra expert’; she’s just flown in from New York and in desperate need of more of her favourites. There’s a confidence there that I am certainly not radiating in my changing room, but come on…everyone must feel some awkwardness doing this, right? Zoe, my particular ‘bra expert’, is scanning my naked chest, mentally assessing my measurements, “turn around please”, she asks and I duly follow. After a quick scan of my back she leaves to locate, what I can only assume to be, my dream bra. And with that I find myself awkwardly standing, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

Now, I don’t write this because I like retelling anecdotes from my life (which for the record I do), I am writing this because the person I faced reflected a female ruled by fear, by naivety and disconnection to their own feminine energy. Yet there I was, engaged in a hyper-feminine activity, surrounded by beautiful portraits of women, by everything traditionally perceived as luxuriously feminine, feeling more lost in my own identity than ever before.

Zoe softly announced she had returned and let herself into the changing room. “Now I wasn’t sure whether you wanted something a bit more suggestive or practical so I have brought you a few…” I thought

why not something practically suggestive? I watched Zoe hang two handfuls of bras, each unique in their style, material and colour. I tried on at least ten different bras, each one suited for a different type of woman-balcony, lift, plunge, support, some for t-shirts, some with intricate lace and a maze of straps, some more understated and simple in style and colour. A few readjustments and a strap-ping later I found what felt like my glass slipper, perhaps supporter is a more of an apt term.

Looking back at this moment, six months on, I find it interesting to recall how I defined myself or understood myself to be. I had just quit working as a suburban primary school teacher and about to take the plunge and relocate to the East Coast of Australia. I recognised and expressed femininity through my physical appearance and external tropes like fashion and makeup, and social labels such as daughter, girlfriend, gal-pal and lady-all foundations of a generalised and marketable understanding of what it is to be typically feminine. This is what I knew; this is what I was taught from media and my society.

But what I hadn't consciously know was there is more, so much more that isn’t so obvious, waiting to be uncovered. I had seen it all over the tubes, at Waterloo station, nestled in the interaction between two women in a coffee shop. I had seen inspiration on the red carpet, fashion show audiences and my own front-garden path. It exists in communities, in wardrobes, in university discussion groups and the silence of meditation. I can’t tell you what ‘it’ is quite yet, but what I do know, is that person staring back at me in the mirror wasn’t someone who felt good about themselves. I felt a simplistic and negative inner-dialogue deeply, and I wanted to explore ‘it’, understand ‘it’ and transform ‘it’.

My new bra was gingerly wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a sleek, branded paper bag and, for discretion, tied with a black satin bow. I thanked Zoe for her help and got myself dressed. I felt my breasts and I had entered a new phase of womanhood, a levelling up if you will. I stepped back out onto the busy winter streets, bag in hand, and looked out at a host of huge Christmas angels, stretch all the way above my head and down the road, lighting my way to the nearest tube station.