Am I Less Powerful Just ‘Cause I Cover My Boobs?

Am I less powerful just ’cause I cover my boobs? Nah, but it’s time we ask why we even feel like we have to.

Before going any further, let me make it clear that no. The response is a resounding, no doubt about it no. It is not my mammary glands that hold my power. I am not sewn in the material of my bra. There is the spirit of me, my fire, my intelligence, my pity, my anger, my ingenuity, and all that stands on a level well beyond the anatomical. But you and I? We are not here to get the easy answers. We are here to strike down to the roots of the question itself. Since it is not the act of covering up that poses the gut-punching question, it is the why. Why do we even have this social scratch to pose such a question in the first place?

Why does an otherwise easy decision on what to wear or what not to, to be so loaded, all political, bound up so deeply with our own sense of ourselves, our own role in the world? Have you ever had one of those times when an idea just comes to you so developed that it seems like it was there in the wings all this time? I had one this morning.

I made my way down the stair, still in the benign, drowsy atmosphere of another fresh day, in these beautiful silk pajamas my mother presented to me on my birthdays. A little luxury they touch my skin like liquid. And there he was my son, lying on the couch in his sunbathing way. Shirtless. In just his shorts. The dog lay coiled at his feet, and he was absolutely and dependably, unselfconsciously free. Performance, second-guessing, tugging or adjusting did not exist. He just… was. He had settled in that portion of the couch the naturalness of which was that it was made to be filled, as it was.

And I, holding my coffee, felt a wave of warmth. A simple, biological response. And my immediate, unconscious thought? “I should go put a robe on.” If he were my husband, he’d have just taken his shirt off. No big deal. But for me? The mental calculus began instantly. Who might stop by? Is the curtain open? What if the delivery guy sees?

A minute, a ripple on the screen of a hectic morning. But like a gong it echoed in me. The last time I simply was in my own house and lived with such a gung-ho-unapologetic ease? It is not in the bedroom, behind a closed door, but in the living room, the center of the house? The fact is, that never, never had that thought in my mind. It was not even a choice I had deliberately made to myself; it was a choice that had been swept out of my list of possibilities some considerable time before I was conscious of having a menu.

I had known since I was a girl that it was a rule which was unspoken, but ironclad in that, at some age, the shirt remains. Always. Even when you’re alone. Especially when you’re alone. Due to which what type of a woman would you be had you not?

This isn’t really about modesty. Let’s be real. This is about control. It’s about the silent, pervasive curriculum we all absorb from birth on which bodies are considered public property, which are deemed “distractions,” and which are allowed to simply be. Think back. Remember the chaos of puberty? For boys, it’s often a straightforward, even celebrated, path. Voice drops, muscles fill out, it’s a linear march toward manhood. For us? It’s a chaotic, often terrifying, metamorphosis. Some girls bloom early, their bodies making a dramatic entrance they never asked for. Others wait, watching their friends transform while feeling left behind in a child’s body.

And then there’s The Bra. Oh, the existential dread of The Bra. Do you get one to fit in, even if you don’t need it? Do you brave the fluorescent lighting of the department store, with its older fitter who might call out numbers in a voice that feels too loud? Or do you order online, playing a guessing game with sizes, hoping the thing that’s supposed to support you doesn’t feel like a cage?

I recall the time when I had to cross my arms across my chest. I recall when I had decided on a loose sweat shirt rather than a tight t-shirt. I recall the initial unpleasant glare of a man that made me feel that I had done something wrong by the virtue of being in a body that was transforming without my consent. That’s the real kicker, isn’t it? We also train how to censor ourselves beforehand, how to cope with the discomfort of others, how to get smaller, quieter, less noticeable, to avoid the gaze which we did not request.

We grow up editing ourselves. Tucking things away. Smoothing things over. Sanding down our rough edges and hiding our sharp corners until we present the most palatable, acceptable version of ourselves. We become a redacted document of our own lives. Black marker over the parts deemed too provocative, too messy, too real.

My therapist once leveled me with a question I’m still trying to answer: “Who were you before the world told you who to be?” Damn. Who was I before I learned to cross my arms? Before I learned that my body was something to be managed? I was that little girl, maybe. The one I see sometimes at the beach, running with abandon, shirtless and glorious, her skin brown under the sun. And notice, nine times out of ten, that little girl is European. Because somewhere, the cultural script is different. For me, my eyes automatically scan the beach when I see her. Not with joy for her freedom, but with a cold spike of anxiety. I look for raised phones, for lingering looks, for any threat.

I hate that my brain works like that. I hate that experience has wired me for this kind of vigilance. This, too, is a form of censorship—an internal one, a hyper-awareness that keeps us from ever truly letting go. My reaction is mixed when a local politician raises his voice on making our beaches topless. In theory? Yes! Bodily autonomy! Equality! Free the nipple! In reality? A deep, visceral distrust. I don’t trust him.

I do not buy into a society that objectifies the breast to an obsession level, and then promises to free them without really bending their mind to alter the mentality. I am not trusting that it would be safe. I do not believe it would not be turned into a show. Nondetect sexualized nudity is not something that we are accustomed to. Could we learn? Maybe. Hopefully. Still, it is not a light-switch you have to turn off and on; it is a culture that you are forced to recreate, painstakingly. The practical fear of consequence that interferes with the theoretical freedom of choice and independence is the core of the issue. We cannot always see the bars of the cage.

And it makes me wonder, what have I lost? By years of this internal and external censorship, what part of myself have I quietly packed away? Has it that unshaken unmerited confidence I observe in my son? This intrinsic feeling of belongingness to this world, the fact that your body is not an apology? Is it the capacity to occupy space without seeking permission?

What would it be like to have the sun on your back reading in the park? Imagine that I would be able to run on a hot day and feel the wind on my skin without even thinking about it? And what maybe, or what might be, were I, without my body being a subject, a speech, a political action or a problem to be resolved? Would the world become more of a thing of mine? Would I feel less of a guest in my own life, ever looking at the regulations of a house I never raised? Is this unremitting, repetitive censorship keeping me, unconsciously, out of my full power? Is it telling me, first and foremost, that I am a body to be governed, and not a force to be reckoned with?

Does that make me continue playing a supporting role in my own story since a basic aspect of my bodily life is considered too scandalous to just exist? I don’t have the easy answers. Maybe the solution is a gradual desensitization—more art, more normalized non-sexualized representation in media.

Maybe it’s raising our sons differently, teaching them respect and nuance. Maybe it’s raising our daughters to never learn the arm-cross in the first place. Maybe it’s full-on flash mob nudity until the world just gets over itself! Maybe it’s declaring all beaches clothing-optional. Maybe it’s simply the radical act of refusing to feel shame, whether we choose to cover up or not. You tell me. Because here’s the bottom line, the truth I keep circling back to:

This is so much bigger than boobs. It’s about the silent scripts we follow. The rules we never consented to. The ways we shrink, we hide, we make ourselves palatable to a world that would rather we were easier to digest.

The strength of reclaiming power cannot be reclaiming it by means of burning your bra (though, of course, you may do this!). It’s about reclaiming choice. It is questioning the reason behind all the shoulds and should nots in our minds. It is all about having in your bones that you are powerful. It is not covered by a turtleneck and it is not enhanced by a bikini top. It is yours. Unconditionally. The actual revolt is the uneducation. It is in sitting in that pain of that question: who was I before? It is in allowing oneself the freedom to live fully and wholly on ones own terms. To conceal due to the fact that you want to, or that you are cold or that you like the sweater not because you are frightened. To bare, because it is liberating, because the sun is pleasant–not out of resistance to the eyes of other people.

It is concerning knowing at last, last, that your body is not a compromise. It is your home. And you have the choice of who makes it in, what it is, but best of all, of how liberated you are in it. I am sick of trying to be granted to be. I think you may be, as well. So let’s stop asking. Let’s just be. However that looks for us.