I got to know you. I looked into the expert bra fitters, the many bra size calculators, the quizzes and apps. We got some bras that looked better than I’d ever hoped for before. They looked good on you. Then, after a couple of hours, you didn’t really like them. The straps chafed; the underwires stabbed. I tried really hard, this time around. I really did. We were betrayed. It was supposed to be a good fit. Hard work was supposed to pay off. It was supposed to work out this time.

Goodbye, sports bra; hello, almost-fitting-but-still hurting bra. Progress, right? This time, we despaired, together.

I took you out again, clothed in these better-than-nothing bras, and I complained once more to our regulars — the boyfriend and the male friend. “Bras still suck,” I said, feeling bad and sad for the both of us.

“Why don’t you do something about it?” they asked.

I wasn’t someone who could do that, I thought. I was too small, too mousy, too unconfident for that. Just like you. I wanted to wait for the girl with the bigger confidence, just like I waited for you to grow up.

But this time, I was angry for you. I was angry that there wasn’t a bra that fit. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that we were relegated to Sports Bra hell — that we were settling for the underwear equivalent of a fig leaf while others had invented needle, thread, and boxers. It wasn’t fair that we had to wear the equivalent of a slipper instead of a nice loafer, because someone couldn’t get our size right.

That was the day that I realized that I wasn’t angry with you anymore. I was angry at Them. The Powers that Be, that made this so hard for us.

So I went ahead anyway and slowly and surely, looked at the problem. For the first time in years, I got really excited for you. I thought that maybe there was a way to make you happier than all the other stuff out there. I learned about the things that matter — density, fullness, place of fullness. I learned that you’re tricky and complicated and fickle and bloat in some cases; I learned that shoulders are involved with you when it comes to you. I learned that everything’s involved when it comes to you.

You were always kind of like that, weren’t you? I never saw you, really. I never knew you. I asked you to disappear without ever really looking at you. And that’s because no one wanted to look; everyone averted their eyes, hinting that it was shameful to have you around with me.

I began to map you out in colors and dimensions. I looked at you, compared to someone else’s breasts — and for the first time, I thought, what’s bigger and what’s smaller? What’s better, or more beautiful? It was like seeing you for the first time, again, unattached to my body and unattached to anyone else’s eyes. You were just, there. You just were. I wasn’t stuck with you. I was with you, and you were with me.

I worked harder than ever for you. I made you a bra. It fit. Finally, something made just for you, no gapping, quadding, slipping, sliding. This was a nice look for you, rounded and uplifted; this was a comfortable feeling for you. Why not show it off?

For once in my life, I forgot about the uncomfortable looks, and I showed you off on Instagram; I nerded out about you to anyone who would listen. I began to believe that there were more important things than not showing you off in the wrong places. What was wrong about it, anyway?