I’ve been wearing sports bras to bind my breasts for years

I began binding my breasts when I was 18. At first, it was a single sports bra on the rare occasion I was partaking in an athletic activity. Then it became two sports bras. And then one day as I was searching for a suitable undergarment for a strapless dress, I realized that I no longer owned one. Every last item was spandex.

At the time, I cannot say I ever gave it much thought. I liked that for once I was able to wear a form-fitting blouse without the promise of shameless stares from strangers. I liked it even better when working as a waitress, when my uniform consisted of a t-shirt that was purposefully two sizes too small. My breasts were no longer available for discussion. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Pre-puberty, I had grown accustomed to hovering somewhere near 5’1 and being remarkably slight for my age. Not a single curve to be found. It was easy to take pride in being known not for my physicality, but for my mind and the exceptional maturity that accompanied having two significantly older siblings.  At social functions I held my own in adult conversation and spoke freely and confidently about current news or my developing future aspirations. Family friends often commented that I was destined for something big and bright.

The beginning of the perpetual, black eye-sore making itself known from underneath my shirt

But when at 15 I seemed to have awoken with DD breasts, the complimentary remarks became less about my premature wisdom or capability to talk politics and more about my burgeoning womanhood and the attention I was getting from men.

When my parents held a dinner party the summer after I had just turned 16, I remember bounding down the stairs in a yellow eyelet halter top. Tanned shoulders on full display. I felt feminine. Pretty, even. As I greeted their guests, it was nearly impossible not to notice the glances that lingered too long, and the comments like, “You’ve certainly grown into yourself, haven’t you?” or “You’re a woman now,” or my personal favorite, “You’ll be fighting the boys off with a stick when you start school.”

I thought it would be an isolated event. That surely everyone would become bored of my newfound breasts sooner rather than later. But when another event was held at my home a few months later, I was in conversation with a particularly tall family member and as I spoke, I could not shake the feeling that his focus had been taken elsewhere. More specifically, down my dress. Those suspicions were confirmed as he approached me to say goodbye and added, “Man is it fun being 6’2. Great view,” and with a final, shameless glance at my chest, he strode away.

Nonetheless I was repeatedly told by female friends and family members to embrace them, and each time I undressed in the presence of someone else they guffawed at the lengths I had begun to take to conceal them. But if being busty garnered that much attention from even the oldest of family members and old friends, what would I be attracting elsewhere?

For a time, I believed they also functioned as bathing suits

As it has turned out, quite a lot.

When part-time waitressing eventually became interning and working in office atmospheres, it only grew worse. If I happened to wear a real bra, I was either offending, exciting, or eliciting some sort of female envy. To every male in the office, I was captivating. But to every woman, I was a living, breathing Elle Woods. A blonde waste of space that would be better suited on the cover of the naughty magazines shoved in the desk drawers of our male employees than behind the desk.

It was not an uncommon occurrence to overhear a number of men in the office partaking in water cooler chat about how I looked in the top I had chosen to wear that day, and each and every Friday afternoon I was the only woman in the office to be invited to join them for drinks after work.

The spandex collection saw a drastic increase, and before I knew it I was never in anything but. At the office. In class. Going out with friends. Even on dates.

It’s pretty easy to wear a sports bra when you’re club hopping in a turtleneck

Months ago, I spent the night with someone and in the morning as I held my own naked breasts in my palms and silently searched for my clothes to redress, I turned around to find my sports bra dangling from his fingers. I was mortified, he was intrigued. I explained that if I had not left work before we had gone out together and had I actually known I was going to spend the night at his, I probably would have made a more appropriate choice of undergarment. His answer was, “OK.” but his expression revealed otherwise.

It was then that I allowed myself to come to terms with the fact that I had become addicted to a certain safety I felt while wearing sports bras. For the first time in my life, I was able to function without my breasts getting in the way of things. Literally, and figuratively.

When wearing them, I never worried whether or not they would pose a problem for others perception of me. Not only did they provide me with security, but there was an element of power in them too. Except for the fact that there wasn’t. If anything, I now understand that by wearing them I am actively disempowering myself.

Binding my breasts is just one of the many efforts that I have made to present myself as the subject rather than the object. Lately though, I find myself wondering why I felt the need in the first place. Why is being visibly curvaceous synonymous with a woman that is incapable of acting with independence, intelligence, and a lack of concern with placing herself in the male gaze?

I know that I am not alone. Friends, colleagues and family members have all discussed this particular paradox with me, many of them posing the same questions as I have. All of which do not have an answer.

I’m really self-conscious of how my boobs look in this swimsuit. A more flattering form of spandex, nonetheless. Progress

Making peace with the fact that I’m a DD has gotten easier since I was 18. I even kind of like the look of them in lingerie, and can now agree that in most cases they are quite beautiful. I have trained myself to integrate more lace and bras with actual cups into that spandex drawer, but a part of me will never quite be able to eliminate that old habit altogether. What was once a practice of my insecurity, sadly became a precautionary measure.

So now when I undress before a friend or family member, and I am inevitably greeted with a chorus of, “You have great boobs, why the hell are you hiding them?” I will no longer dismiss them with the usual incoherent, slightly embarrassed stuttering. I think I’ll just try and reach for the underwire. And maybe one day I’ll do it without reluctancy.