On Underwire, Mental Load, and Why I’m Done Covering Up

Since it’s the New Year, I had this peculiar, strange urge to clean out my closet. And I don’t mean a light purge. I mean really clean it out.

I went through underwear (half of which is mysteriously missing — riddle me that, Batman), socks, and the whole kitten caboodle. And then I saw it.

Sitting on a white shelf in a hot pink plastic basket was my arch enemy: every removable insert from every swimsuit, bra, and dress I’ve owned over the last decade.

The remnants of breastfeeding. Five years of wearing swimsuits without padding because I couldn’t remember which insert belonged to which suit. Bras whose little triangles never quite fit again because they were already misshapen from me not wearing them in the first place.

This — this — is the epitome of being a woman.

The juggling. The breathing deeply so you don’t scream at your kids. Getting chicken nuggets the right temperature and crispiness. Making sure everyone has the correct color cup and is sitting in the “right” seat at the dinner table… until one child moves and the whole thing blows to shit anyway.

And don’t even get me started on Christmas. The new toys. The blankets strewn everywhere. The constant hum of responsibility. It is exhausting.

Standing there, staring at this basket of things I no longer need — nor wish to shove, fold, or stuff into bras and swimsuits — something clicked.

Screw it.
Screw all of it.

Who decided these inserts weren’t sewn in, anyway? Honestly, manufacturers — that would be amazing. Women have enough to deal with without worrying if our nipples are making a guest appearance. And who, exactly, is inspecting whether there’s proper coverage across the entire width of my breast? I sincerely hope no one. And if they are, slap them upside the head and run.

Is anyone else blinking their way back into routine right now?

As I drank my coffee, I tried to remember what I used to do during the day when I wasn’t wrangling four kids, planning meals, coordinating holiday events, or tracking who needed to be where and when. I dropped them off one by one and quietly cheered — not because they’re a problem (they’re wonderful), but because responsibility is heavy.

Seven hours of silence stretched in front of me, and I realized I had no idea what my routine even was anymore.

Do I work out? No — I haven’t in months. Should I start now, right before vacation? Probably not. Why does my body look like it’s all one color? Should I meditate? And… how does one actually meditate?

With a growing mental to-do list, I opened the windows and let fresh air in. The sound of cars rushing by — something I hadn’t heard in weeks — filled the house. I started thinking about packing, about sunshine, about crossing the finish line after hosting Halloween, birthdays, our first work Christmas party, another birthday the next day (thank God I over-ordered food), a two-week break, and then Christmas Day itself.

It’s a lot. It’s always a lot. And yet, I’m grateful. For my home. My family. My husband, who never blinks when I throw out a half-baked idea and say, “Let’s host.” It always turns out beautiful.

But back to the original thought.

As I ran through another packing list — swimsuits, cover-ups, dresses, maybe pants? Why are pants even a question? — I circled right back to that basket.

What in the hell are swimsuit manufacturers thinking?

We already juggle hormones, periods, perimenopause, spouses, kids, work, and expectations. I breastfed for ten years — ten — and now I’m supposed to worry about stuffing tiny foam triangles into fabric to pretend my nipples didn’t survive the apocalypse?

Absolutely not.

These kids did what they did. My body is what it is. And these inserts? They’re done being in charge.

So I pared them down. Donated what could be donated. Threw the rest out without a second thought. I do not have the time or desire to play match-the-triangle ever again.

Who is with me?

Let’s stop stuffing ourselves into expectations, into padding, into “shoulds.” We’ve been covered long enough — by roles, by schedules, by invisible labor, by tiny triangles meant to make other people comfortable.

This summer. Or on the next vacation. Or today.

Let your body breathe.
Let the inserts go.
Say eff it.

We’ve done enough.

Now… who’s with me?