Neurodivergent Fairytales: The princess & the pea, and the Marks & Spencer Bra

Illustration by Edmund Dulac from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytales

Once upon a time—no, actually, every single time I think I’ve found the holy grail of bras, the one that will finally mean I’ve reached ‘bra-nirvana’—it turns out to betray me.

Before I knew I was autistic, I gaslit myself into thinking that every other woman felt the discomfort I did, but that they just breezed along with it in some unfathomable way. Secretly, when I sometimes managed to dislodge the masking and self-gaslighting, I would exclaim that all bras are torture devices and should be banned.

Post-autistic discovery, and with the mask and self-gaslighting mode switched off, I can now confidently claim that bras are torture devices. But—I have to admit—I still need to wear one.

Honestly, I know this sounds drastic, but sometimes I fantasise about breasts being optional. Imagine it! I mean, really imagine what it would be like to not have a band wrapped around your upper chest every single day of your life.

So anyway, the fairytale goes like this: Once upon a time, in the bustling kingdom of Bristol, I decided to face my epic struggle for a comfortable bra once and for all. I convinced myself that somewhere in the deepest corners of the lingerie department at Marks & Spencer, there must be a bra that fulfils the basic criteria of comfort.

I mean, am I really asking for the moon on a stick?

With the emotional support of my incredibly fairytale-like mother (who accepts all of my autisticness), we travelled along the Portway to the enormously ridiculous shopping mall of Cribbs Causeway. The only way to do this without spending too many energy units (which I needed to reserve for in-depth bra analysis) was to park as close to the Marks & Spencer entrance as possible, head straight for the escalator without getting distracted by fancy bed-wear, and make a beeline for the racks—and racks and racks and racks—of bras.

Which is exactly what we did. Thankfully, I knew the car journey well, so no energy spent there. The entrance was easy to get to—so far, so good.

With determination in my heart (or possibly naïveté), we ventured into the lingerie section. The sheer variety was overwhelming—lace, satin, cotton, polyester-mix, padded, underwired, zips, sports, bralettes, post-op, push-up, maternity, first-bra-ever, wired, non-wired, 32, 34, 36, A, B, C, D, E...

I mean—this fairytale is already turning dark, and I haven’t even tried anything on!

So I switched on my problem-solving brain, scanned back over everything I’ve learned in my years of bra-wearing, and came up with the following criteria:

• As little padding as possible

• No wires

• No metal

• No clasps

• No adjustable, fiddly bits

• As little stitching as possible

• Literally no lace or anything fancy

• Nothing bra-shaped

Which left me with... nothing.

So, I reluctantly added “bra-shaped” back in.

I had no idea what my current bra size was, but I remembered the last time I got measured at M&S. I said to the lady—after she declared my size and I stood there proud, thinking I’d nailed it—“Surely no one really walks around with the strap that tight around their chest, do they???”

I gathered up what seemed like at least twenty different bras of various shapes and sizes, as close to my criteria as possible, and tried them all on. Not one was comfortable. Not a single one.

So I started again—but this time, I veered away from bras completely and tried on what looked like a sports crop top. It actually felt... pretty good. So into the basket it went.

As a final, desperate attempt, I tried on a trio of bralettes—no wiring, no clasps. And as soon as I put one on, it felt—well, I think the phrase is:

“As comfortable as I think I’m going to get it, considering I’d prefer not to wear a bra at all if I could.”

Funnily enough, these bralettes don’t even come in complicated sizes. They’re just small, medium, and large. Which suits my autistic brain perfectly.

And that is the end of my story.

I’m realising more and more how skin sensitivity is a huge spike in my profile. It’s weird to think I’ve worn my skin my whole life, and yet only since my autism discovery have I fully acknowledged the impact that clothing has on me—how I sometimes mistake an antsy mood as a reaction to a stressful day, when actually, it’s my bra that’s been talking to me for hours.

I’m now on a mission to find clothes that talk to me the least. Imagine that—being able to go about my day with silence surrounding my skin. That would be the dream.

Maybe that’s why I love floating in swimming pools so much.

Do you relate to any of this? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Oh—and here’s the bra, if you’re interested (I’m not on a commission!!). I can’t promise it’ll be right for you. What works for me might not work for you!