The Great Bra Hunt: A Lifetime of Bodies That Don’t Fit the Boxes

Uncomfortable in My Own Skin Series - Part 1

December is about hyperesthesia, or hyper-sensitivity to touch. This kind of tactile sensitivity can be very physically uncomfortable. We sensitive souls are hyperaware of every sensation, every shift, every change in your body that most people don’t even notice, and it’s time we stop apologizing for it!

The training bra came in a cardboard box.

My mother left it on my bed like she did when she got me new socks or school supplies. It was a scratchy white bra with a tiny blue bow in the center. It came with a pamphlet about puberty that explained nothing useful.

I tried to wear it.
I lasted less than an hour.

The elastic dug in. The seams rubbed. Every movement made me hyperaware that something foreign was strapped to my body. I couldn’t think about anything else. I ripped it off and threw it under my bed.

The next day, I walked to Target and used my babysitting money to buy myself a black ribbed tank top and wore it every single day until it didn’t fit anymore.

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I have always had a hate-hate relationship with bras.

Now, at 52yo, I’ve given bras up entirely.

At 18, the allure of Victoria’s Secret (and peer pressure) enticed me to try a “real” bra instead of tank-tops and sports bras. The “sizing specialist” measured me and made a face I’m sure she didn’t think I would notice. It was only a flicker of an expression, but I saw it not just in the squint of her eyes, but the texture of her aura went rough like sandpaper.

“We don’t carry your size.”

“What size am I?”

“I can fit you in a 32C, a sister-size.”

She never told me my actual size, but instead offered me a selection of 3 styles among the dozens the store had to offer. Each one resulted in what I call “bubble boob” where my breast spilled out over the edge of the cup, giving massive cleavage.

I sneaked out of the store before she could come back around and ask me how things were going.

A sister size means you go up in the band and down in the cup. But this Victoria’s Secret “sizing specialist” didn’t tell me that the “sister size” was 4 inches up in band size and three cup sizes down, more like a distant cousin to my small band and large cup size.

I started wearing 32Cs, cuz that was the closest size stores had in 1992. I wore shelf-bra tank tops over them to catch the spillage and provide extra band support. No matter what I tried though, nothing felt comfortable.

15 years later, I found myself in a specialty boutique, a mom and pop shop in a small town in Rhode Island that boasted finding the exact bra fit for every pair of breasts with custom fittings and European brands.

They were happy to tell me my size, 28DDD. I had to sit down in the fancy victorian chair in the corner of the dressing room. I always thought of triple-Ds as being for large women. At 120lbs soaking wet, I’m a pipsqueak, and a triple D???

The clerk came back exactly six bras to choose from, every one of them priced above $150. One was $265! Six options in a wall of hundreds of bras for the 34Bs and 36Cs of the world. While other women debated between lace and smooth, push-up and t-shirt, I got to choose between black, nude, and white in a few different styles.

When I put one of them on and noticed bubble-boob happening in just my right breast the fitter said, “one of your breasts is a DD and the other is a DDD. If you want symmetry, you’ll need to fit for the larger one and pad the smaller one.”

No wonder nothing ever fits! Just like everything else in my life, I’m just weird.
I left without buying anything.

A few years later, I ditched the underwires altogether. I found a brand of shelf-tank-tops that felt good. I bought ten of them. They will never give me the perky-boob look that seems to be the norm, and I don’t care. I’m over 50 and have decided comfort is far more important that fashion.

My angst over bras is a deep sensory issue. I’ve seen other women be perfectly content with bubble boob, and say they don’t even notice the underwire. They talk as if the digging in straps is a fact of life that doesn’t bother them at all.

Not me. I feel everything. The texture of fabric against my skin. The pressure of elastic. The way a seam hits at the wrong angle. Underwires poking and digging. Scratchy lace makes my skin crawl. Too-tight bands make me feel like I can’t breathe. Too-loose bands ride up and twist and require constant adjustment. Every sensation gets amplified until it’s all I can think about. My nervous system goes into low-level fight-or-flight, and I spend the entire day managing discomfort that other people don’t even notice.

I should be able to handle this.

Am I being difficult or high-maintenance or too sensitive?

What Four Decades of Bra Shopping Taught Me

This isn’t actually about bras.

It’s about living in a world designed for bodies that aren’t yours. It’s about being told your needs are “difficult” when they’re just different. It’s about the exhaustion of trying to fit into boxes that were never meant to hold you.

For sensitive souls, the bra hunt is just one example of a larger pattern. We’re always negotiating, adapting, and trying to make our bodies acceptable to a world that doesn’t account for our sensitivities.

The training bra I rejected at thirteen, the sister-size Victoria Secret workaround bra, and the $240 custom fitted bras weren’t the problem. The problem was that no one asked me what felt right. Every experience confirmed the same message: my body is the problem, not the system.

And I spent decades trying to prove I could make it work anyway.

When I finally gave up the hunt and bought ten identical shelf tank tops, I stopped apologizing for my body’s requirements. I stopped feeling broken for needing something special. I stopped trying to force myself into discomfort just to look “normal.”

I was right at thirteen when I chose the ribbed tank top over the scratchy training bra. My body knew what it needed even when I didn’t have the language to defend it.

Four decades later, I choose tank tops.

Hi, I’m TeriLeigh.

This is me, wearing a tank top instead of a bra!

I’m a synesthetic empath, and I’ve spent 30+ years writing and teaching about sensitivity as advanced spiritual discernment. I see auras, taste emotions, and feel textures that most people miss—which means I understand what it’s like to live in a body that processes everything in high definition.

I specialize in translating mystical concepts into practical tools for HSPs, empaths, and anyone who’s been told they’re “too sensitive.” If your nervous system feels everything and you’re tired of apologizing for it, you’re in the right place.

If you’ve spent your life feeling “too picky” about clothing, if tags feel like thorns and waist-bands are never the stretchiness, if body changes make you feel like a stranger in your own skin, if you’re exhausted from negotiating with your nervous system every time you get dressed— I’d love to hear your hyperesthesia stories in the comments.