Ditching My Bra — And Finally Feeling Free in My Skin

Free, unbound, and unapologetically me — ditching the bra, embracing comfort, and reclaiming my body’s right to simply be.

Hey, you. Yeah, you, scrolling with your morning coffee (or maybe late-night wine, no judgment here). Pull up a chair. Or just keep scrolling, but hear me out for a sec. Because today? Today, Sristi Vats did something monumental. Something that sent tiny shockwaves through my own personal universe. I left the house without my bra. Stop. I know what you’re thinking. “Sristi, really?

That’s your big news?” But trust me, for me, this is big. Monumental. As big as… well, as big as my own boobs. Because, friends? I have literally never done this before. Not properly.

Okay, fine, maybe technically not never-never. There was that frantic school run last winter where I chucked on the thickest parka and hoodie known to humankind, drove like a woman possessed, and absolutely, positively did not get out of the car. Does that count?

Nah, I don’t think so either. That was stealth mode. Today was different. Today was deliberate. Today was… just me, a t-shirt, the Delhi summer humidity, and my boobs, free.

Let’s rewind. My boobs and I have a long, complicated history. They arrived early. Like, really early. I was barely out of pigtails at nine when they decided to make their grand entrance. By seventh grade? I was already handing down my gently-used bras to my mom — a proud, lifelong card-carrying member of the IBTC (Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee, obviously). The irony wasn’t lost on either of us. High school saw me comfortably (or rather, uncomfortably) settled into a DD.

I kept waiting, hoping, praying they’d hit a growth plateau. “They’ll stop soon,” I told myself. Spoiler alert: They didn’t listen. Now, at 37, after nourishing three tiny humans with them? Hello, G-cup. They are undeniably, unapologetically big.

And you know what? Despite the backaches, the impossible bra hunts, the occasional ridiculous silhouette? I kinda love them. They’re mine. They’re part of my story. But loving them hasn’t always meant feeling free with them. For decades, the bra wasn’t just underwear; it was armour. It was structure. It was societal expectation welded directly into my ribcage. Going without felt… unthinkable. Reckless. Like inviting judgment I wasn’t sure I could handle.

This fear bled into everything. Tank tops? Forget it. Too much potential for… movement. For visibility. For existing naturally in my own skin. Swimsuits? Oh god, the dread.

Forget the boobs for a second — add in the soft tummy from those three babies, thighs that definitely touch… the whole package felt like it screamed “NOT ALLOWED ON THIS BEACH.” I’d spend pool days wrapped in sarongs, sweating more from anxiety than heat. Then, a shift happened. Slowly, then all at once. Maybe it was hitting my late 30s. Maybe it was the sheer exhaustion of giving so many damns for so long.

Maybe it was just looking around and realizing the world wouldn’t actually end if Sristi Vats had a visible belly roll in a swimsuit. Whatever it was, I hit a point where I just… snapped. Internally. I distinctly remember thinking: “Fck it.”* Seriously. Fck it.*

If I want to wear the damn tank top, I’ll wear the damn tank top. My boobs will exist within it, possibly jiggle, definitely be there. If society has a problem with the shape of my body under fabric? Not my circus, not my monkeys. Look away. Scroll past. Close your eyes. Your discomfort is not my burden. Same goes for the swimsuit. Am I expecting the lifeguard (or anyone else) to swoon?

Absolutely not. But that’s not why I’m there. I’m there to feel the water, to splash with my kids, to exist comfortably in the sun. My body is simply the vessel for that experience. It doesn’t need to be sculpted from marble to deserve a dip in the pool.

This “f*ck it” mentality has been brewing, a quiet revolution under the surface. Accepting the reality of my body — big boobs, soft belly, strong thighs, all of it — and deciding it was worthy of existing as is, without constant correction or concealment. It wasn’t about suddenly thinking I was a supermodel; it was about realizing I didn’t need to be one to deserve basic comfort and autonomy.

So, back to this morning. Delhi was already breathing hot and heavy. The thought of wrestling with underwire and straps felt like a special kind of torture. I pulled on a soft, slightly thicker cotton t-shirt. Looked in the mirror. Took a deep breath. And… didn’t reach for the bra drawer.

The walk to the local market was… an experience. It wasn’t about feeling suddenly sexy or powerful. It was about sensation. The slight, unfamiliar movement. The absence of constriction. The sheer, simple physical relief. Was I hyper-aware? Maybe a little, at first. Did I catch anyone looking? Probably no more than usual. Did the earth crack open? Nope. But something did happen. A tiny, internal lock clicked open.

A whisper: “See? You can do this. You are allowed to be comfortable in your own skin.” It wasn’t a thunderclap of liberation; it was a quiet, profound sigh of relief. Like finally taking off shoes that were two sizes too small after a very, very long day. Decades long.

This isn’t a manifesto against bras. They serve a purpose! Support is wonderful! This is about choice. About questioning the automatic nature of it. About realizing that my comfort, my physical ease, gets a vote. A big vote. Going braless today wasn’t about making a statement to the world. It was about making a quiet, radical peace treaty with myself. It was Sristi Vats giving her own body permission to just be. To feel the air. To exist without scaffolding.

And you know what? It felt amazing. Not “running through a field of daisies” amazing, but “ahhh, that’s better” amazing. The kind of amazing that comes from shedding an invisible weight you didn’t even realize you were still carrying. So, if you see me out and about in Delhi, maybe in a t-shirt looking a little… freer… don’t panic. Don’t assume I’ve lost my mind (or my bra). It’s just me, finally giving my girls, and myself, a little more breathing room. One small, defiantly comfortable step at a time. And honestly? It’s about damn time.