On a work trip to Melbourne, I detoured into the city to get fitted for a bra. A friend had shared that it was an experience all women should have because, regardless of age and body type, a supportive bra is always worthwhile; as is the firm yet kind guidance of a professional fitter who has seen it all.
“It was her hand on my upper back to steady me,” my friend said. “It made me cry.”
Despite my tendency to recoil from department stores, I went to level three seeking a small moment of guidance, with a supportive hand on my back.
I breastfed four babies for eight years, wearing maternity bras for too many months after my youngest had weaned. The elastic had stretched and the stitching had frayed. These bras were not unlike me: tired, soft around the edges, and a little threadbare.
Now as I enter perimenopause, I’m having a hard time articulating exactly how to define the change, even though the shift into a new life stage is overt. I heard that the first symptom is rather ambiguous – feeling not quite like yourself – and I nod and think: That’s precisely how I feel.
I beeline for a woman who wears her glasses on the tip of her nose and threads straps on to coat hangers without looking. Her name is Debbie, she asks my name and what I want.
“Nothing fussy,” I tell her. “Good basics.”
She moves quickly from one display to another and points out my options, collects my preferences in one hand, describes the style of each, and how I can expect them to fit. She’s shown me exactly what I envisioned buying but I am aghast at the cup size. It’s a visual reminder of what’s most inevitable: we age and grow. It’s the humbling nature of getting older in a world that actively tries to suppress it.
Within the intimate confines of the change room I try not to focus too much on the softness of my belly, my pale winter skin mottled under the lights, all the improvements that could be made but probably won’t be. Debbie speaks calmly, adjusts the straps, points out the separation between my breasts, comments on the fact that I’m filling the cups well. She asks me if I feel held.
“Yes, I do.”
I think about this word for the rest of the day: held. It’s what we all want, isn’t it? A bit of stability in this uncertain world, even if it’s momentary.
Debbie smiles and remarks on how easy it was to find what I needed. I walk away with a few basics that will, ideally, last a few years, but it’s our fleeting interaction I’ll remember most. It reminded me of the bolstering nature of conversation with another human, amplifying the dull and lonely transactions of online shopping.
In an increasingly convenient, AI-assisted world, we’re less and less likely to have these engagements with each other – planned or incidental – and with this loss we sidestep the opportunity to care, and be cared for. This is such a vital part of being human because it is an experience that feels meaningful in the moment, and reverberates within us for a long time afterwards.
Loneliness has been proven to be as physically detrimental as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Casual interactions are now recognised as early mental health intervention, particularly for vulnerable new mothers who are prone to isolation. The conversations we have with the bra-fitter, the barista at the local cafe and the person you wait with at the bus stop all give us a dose of optimism and encouragement. They provide a sense of connection, even in the middle of the city where we anonymously scuttle from one place to the next.
I wonder if Debbie and her colleagues see women in the street wearing ill-fitting bras and wish they could usher them to a claimed corner of the department store and sort them out, lift them up, take away the weight that pulls on their shoulders; lift a little of their life heaviness.
In a world as busy and distracted as ours, we all need small moments of tenderness, and we all need to feel the supportive and stabilising experience of being held.
