Why I Ditched Bras Forever: Nipples Out, No Apologies!

Free the nip, own the vibe — small, big, IDGAF. Bras are cancelled, confidence is eternal. #NippleNation

So, picture this: I’m in my late 30s managing this band of younger guys, and one of them hits me with, “Let’s go skinny-dipping in your pool!” Now, if you’ve read my other stuff, you already know — nudity? Not a big deal for me. I’ve been there, done that. So I was down. But the youngest guy? Nah, he was hesitating… until one of the others hit him with the ultimate peer pressure: “Dude, come on! We get to see Julia’s boobs!”

And you know what? They were fans. No weirdness, no awkwardness — just a bunch of us vibing, splashing around, having a blast.

Here’s the thing: A lot of people have seen my breasts. And no, not in the way you might be side-eyeing right now (though yeah, there are some topless pics of me floating around — hi, internet). Never been a stripper, just a lifelong member of Team No Bra. Started ditching ’em in my 20s, so even if someone hasn’t seen the full reveal, they’ve gotten a strong hint. My nipples? Oh, they’re confident.

A little more south-leaning these days, sure, but they still make their presence known. Fun fact: My boobs spent most of my life being tiny. Like, laughably tiny — according to me and the guys in high school who roasted me for it.

They called me “Little Bits” and swore I was president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Joke’s on them, though — confidence isn’t a size.” Okay, real talk — my boobs were so small growing up that I don’t even remember their ‘grand debut.’ Like, some of y’all woke up at 13 with full-on Hello, ma’am energy, while I was still out here climbing trees like, Where’s the plot twist?

I knew a girl who literally left for summer camp flat and came back with double Ds. Her dad picked her up, took one look, and deadass said, ‘Put those back where you found them.’ Iconic.

Anyway, teen me had major insecurity about my itty-bitties — thanks, Mom, for passing down the ‘Are these even doing anything?’ gene. Joke’s on us, though, because perky, cute, zero-back-pain breasts? That’s a win. Wish I could’ve returned the favour later and taught her to love hers like I (eventually) learned to love mine. Shoutout to my therapist and a few very enthusiastic men who were like, ‘Um, these? Perfect.’ Took me a minute, but now? Zero complaints.”

Okay, let’s be real — back in my teens and 20s, I wanted bigger boobs. Western beauty standards had me in a chokehold, and let’s just say ‘petite’ wasn’t the vibe back then. But by my 30s? I made peace with my small girls. Then life hit me with the ultimate plot twist.

At 40 — surprise! — I got pregnant (something I’d wanted but never thought would happen). And guess what came with it? The big boobs I’d low-key dreamed about. And honey, I put those bad boys to work — breastfed my son for almost three years like the earth-mama goddess I am. Yeah, I fed him anywhere and everywhere — no cover, no shame. Even during a session with my counselling supervisor, getting my hours in. And you know what? Not a single complaint. (King behaviour, honestly.)

Listen, I loved those bigger boobs — the closeness with my son, the immunity boost for him, and… okay, fine, I wasn’t mad at the upgrade either. And guess what? They stayed post-breastfeeding. Plot armour!

Now, do I miss my old tiny titty committee days? Honestly? Nah. But I did have to reintroduce bras into my life — turns out, gravity is undefeated. Would I trade back? Not a chance. These girls have stories now.” Honestly? I’d trade back to my smaller boobs just to go braless again. NGL, I miss that freedom. Sure, I could hit the gym, build up my chest muscles, and maybe make it work with these current girls — but let’s be real, weight loss might just bring back the itty-bitty committee.

And honestly? I’m fine with that. Nipples out, zero regrets. So, who’s seen the girls besides the band boys? Buckle up, because this list is wild:

• Two friends in a sweat lodge (spiritual and revealing)
• Strangers on nude beaches in French islands (ooh la la)
• The free spirits at Hippie Hollow in Austin (keep it weird, right?)
• Hot tub homies in Colorado (followed by a very communal shower)
• Sauna squad in Aspen (sweaty and social)
• The women soaking at Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe (mountain views, zero modesty)
• The Korean spa crew in Texas (wet area, no f*cks given)
• Countless friends in random hot tubs (because why not?)
• Two ride-or-dies in my jacuzzi bath (hydration and exhibition)
• Everyone who helped me through 10+ hours of labour (shoutout to my village — and the nurses who’ve seen it all)

Oh, and lovers/husbands. One even shot nude pics of me at 50 (king sh*t). Another took some in my 20s, but his new wife yeeted them — thank god this was pre-cloud storage.

Now I’m low-key hoping Yael Wolfe will snap some new ones soon. For ~art~ and ~memories~. Who knows how many more people will get a peek in this lifetime? The world’s my runway, and these tatas are always ready for their close-up.

The Bottom Line

So here’s the truth: Bras were never the enemy — society’s hang-ups were. I didn’t ditch them to make a statement; I ditched them because freedom feels better than fabric. My nipples have been accidental tour guides on this unapologetic journey — from high school jokes to French beaches, from motherhood to mountain saunas.

They’ve been judged, celebrated, stretched by time, and still refuse to apologise. Maybe you’ll never go full #NippleNation, and that’s cool. But if there’s one thing my itty-bitties (and their surprise encore) have taught me, it’s this:

Confidence isn’t about what you show or hide — it’s about who permits you to exist as you are.

Spoiler: The only signature required is your own. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot tub to skinny-dip in. Bras optional, audacity mandatory.