A Valentine to My Boobs (and the Bras That Held Them)

It was time to be done.

It was a good run while it lasted, but it was time.

Time to retire the nursing bra.

If we’re being honest, it was slightly embarrassing how many hours that thing had been worn. The snaps opening and closing were the quiet metronome of my days. A steady rhythm of need. Of nourishment. Of survival.

The fabric was tired. Really, an accurate representation of the season I had just lived through. A season of broken sleep, damp shirts, and the kind of love that empties you out in the most beautiful way.

Those bras were an extension of me. The straps knew exactly where to settle on my shoulders. I could unclasp and re-clasp those front flaps without even thinking. I could get a boob into a crying baby’s mouth at Olympic speed even in clothes not designed for chest-feeding people. A superpower, really.

They absorbed milk. Spit. Tears.

They witnessed everything: the awkward early days of learning the ropes, the triumph of a solid latch, the quiet mastery of night feeds done entirely by feel in the dark.

They were not pretty.

But they were loyal.

And so, with deep affection, I sent my wireless, flimsy, faithful workhorse to the Intimates Store in the Sky.

Farewell, friend.

You did well.

The Return of the Underwire

I thought I was ready.

Emotionally? Yes.

Practically? Sure.

Physically?

Well.

Did you know it’s completely normal for one breast to produce more milk than the other? Anatomy, baby preference, let-down speed, all of it plays a role. So when breastfeeding ends, sometimes things… settle differently.

So finding a new bra (already a frustrating process for many bra-wearing people) became a whole new level of “Who is this body and what has she done with mine?”

Still, I found one.

And oh, it was pretty.

Color. Lace. Structure. It felt like a visual breath after months of beige and black functionality. The nursing bras had been there to do a job, not to be admired. This one felt like armor. Or maybe like lingerie for the woman who remembered she existed outside of milk production.

I bought it and wore it out of the store, refusing to put the old dingy dishrag back on.

It felt like reclaiming something.

And then… the shine wore off.

The Complicated Feelings

There was sadness.

The realization that I was truly done using my body in a way that was fought for, earned, and profoundly natural.

There was pride.

Because I had done it. I had shown up. I had nourished life.

And there was discomfort.

Literal poking discomfort from the underwire. Sweaty discomfort from fabric that didn’t breathe. Before, my boobs were wet because of milk. Now they were wet because they felt confined.

I know, I know.  A well-fitting bra shouldn’t hurt. But that felt like background noise compared to what was happening emotionally.

The pretty bra felt like stepping back into a world that evaluates, shapes, and presents women’s bodies. Which sounds dramatic, but in that moment, it felt big.

The nursing bras weren’t sexy. But they felt like worn-in jeans. Soft. Reliable. Safe.

The new bra felt like meeting Susan from HR. Polished. Structured. Trying to be helpful. Slightly oppressive.

I loved how it looked.

I loved taking it off even more.

What I’ve Learned (A Valentine’s Reflection)

This all happened awhile ago.

Susan is still in rotation, but in moderation. I like knowing she’s there. I like choosing her sometimes.

But what I’ve really learned is this:

Love doesn’t have to look lacy.

Love can look like support.

Like softness.

Like flexibility.

Mothering two kids at different levels of mobility (and spontaneous dance-party-ness) requires stretch — physically and mentally. My energy at the beginning of the day is not my energy at 3 p.m. The time I want to devote to “presentation” is… limited.

And now I understand why athleisure is a cultural phenomenon.

It’s not laziness.

It’s alignment.

This season of my life requires garments that move with me. That holds me without reshaping me. That allows me to breathe.

A Love Letter to This Body

This Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking about what it means to love my body.

Not the pre-baby version.

Not the “after I bounce back” version.

Not the lace-covered fantasy version.

This one.

The one that fed babies.

The one that changed shape.

The one that sometimes fits evenly into a bra and sometimes does not.

The one that deserves comfort.

Self-love, for me, looks less like lace and more like listening.

Some days I’ll choose Susan.

Some days I’ll choose Sporty Spice.

But the real romance is this:

I get to choose.

And this body — altered, asymmetrical, softer, stronger — is not a problem to fix.

It’s a love story I lived.

Happy Valentine’s Day.