'There I was, sobbing in the Bonds change room.' The moment my changing pregnant body broke me.

On Saturday I went bra shopping. 

It’s been a very, very, very (very) long time since I’ve done so. And try as I might to savour the days of wearing dainty bralettes and wireless crops, risque bikini tops and going nude in summer, I simply can no longer entertain the notion.

On a positive note, I’m pregnant. Seven months to be exact. And eternally grateful that I am after struggling to conceive for 10 months. Which, in the scheme of other women's’ journeys, is not that long. So to those women, I know nothing I say will make you feel better, if anything, this article might make you feel bitter. However, I still want to acknowledge that I recognise and understand your silent pain, your cyclical frustration, and I hope you are receiving the support you deserve.

While you're here, watch the horoscopes as new mums. Story continues after video.

Since becoming pregnant, my body has changed. On one hand, everything feels new and slightly unbalanced, while on the other, it feels like it's my natural state (I haven’t reached the depths of my third trimester, so I’m still naïve). My boobs have grown so much they have stretch marks, which I actually kind of like. The little pink lines and the darkening of my nipples means my body is changing to get ready for this baby. 

It means I’m morphing into a different version of myself. A mother. But all of these strange and wonderful transformations going on under and on my skin, suddenly were held under a microscope when I decided to buy a new bra. 

A few weeks ago, I had to attend an event that required me to get dolled up. I opted for a tight fitting dress that I’d borrowed off my friend, because hey, I had a belly that was tight and hard (first time in my life), might as well show it off. I was on my husband's case as I got ready making sure that my g-string wasn’t visible and that my arms didn’t look too fat. 

My breasts, however? I didn’t ask. Mostly because I didn’t want to know. Of course he had to have seen that I’d shoved them into a wireless 12A nude bra that was five years old. But bless him, he took one look at my overflowing cleavage and nodded with a pleased grin, "You look hot Bridge!"

Oh, you want to know what type of event I was attending?

A Baptism. 

Praise be the Lord.

For most of the day I felt comfortable. It was nice chatting with my family, planting smooches all over my new Godson's face and taking guesses as to whether or not I’d be having a boy or a girl. But it wasn’t until I got home and started looking through some of the photos that my blissful mood disappeared like a VB on a hot day.

Because there they were. 

My giant ass tits. 

And the outline of my distressed bra doing everything it could to keep them contained. Not even a miracle from Jesus Christ himself could have saved them. 

Sitting in a puddle of embarrassment in bed that night, I made a decision. I needed to update every part of my wardrobe. Not just my clothes. 

Jump ahead to two weeks later, I’m standing in a Bonds change room with two new bras hanging off the hook on the wall. The lovely attendant who had seen me poking sheepishly around the racks informed me to make sure I have room for when my milk comes in. 

Right. Yes. Good advice. 

I picked a black and nude maternity bra. Size: 12D.

Listen to Me After You podcast, In this episode, you’ll be hearing from comedian Veronica Milsom who realised how confronting it can be when your body changes. Story continues after audio.

At first, everything was going fine. I mean, I hadn’t put on makeup that morning which activated the change room lighting to go all yellow zombie mode on my face. And I’d also just been to Service NSW to change my last name to my new married name, which was both exciting and daunting. 

Nevertheless, an acute sensation of being stripped raw, of being changed, kept pulsing in my chest. Which only intensified when I realised the size 12 was tight. Too tight. And the D size cup? Also a little snug. 

I proceeded to rip it off and shove on my shirt so I could quickly sneak outside. The attendant saw my exit and subsequent quick step to the nearest maternity rack, and offered to help find me the next size up. 

14DD. 

I accepted and raced back inside. Again, I got nude. Again, I attempted to wrestle myself into the new bra.

This time... it fit. 

Granted, there was still a bit of room to fill, but it was comfortable. It was holding everything in place. It was nicely shaped. 

It was my new bra size. 

My new body. 

My new future.

Tears sprung so quickly to my eyes it left me breathless. I looked so young. So naïve. So not ready for my entire life to change. I felt lost and shaken. A child trying on her mother's clothes. A tidal wave of grief crested and crashed into my ribcage. My lips started trembling, my nose started running. How could such a simple, trivial task have such a monumental impact on my psyche? 

Because I knew right then and there that I would never be the same. And that was tough to swallow. So tough. I could only imagine what the process would be like doing it on your own, or without the comfort of other people in your life who had battled the same or similar emotions. 

Sensing someone waiting on the other side of the door, I hastily got ready, wiped my eyes, put my glasses on to hide the fact that I had been wiping my eyes, and kept my head down as I went to pay for my new bras. 

The bras I went home with. Image: Supplied.

The attendant was absolutely delightful, and I felt horrible that I wasn't so receptive. I just wanted to get out of there so I could let the rest of the tears flow. 

And boy, did they ever. 

Driving out of the centre, I rang my husband and sobbed in the car. He was worried and sympathetic and did try to remind me that I’ve been wearing the wrong size bras for years. Which I acknowledged with a loud, sloppy sniff and a half-hearted laugh. 

With each kilometre closer to home I tried to accept my fate. That this was only the beginning. That it was a special time in my life. But I had to let my grief sit inside my stomach first. I had to poke it and hold it and then fold it up and place it aside. I had to accept the selfish—albeit completely normal—fear, that young, independent, small boobie Bridget was no more. Instead, something else was taking her place for a little while. And this version of me would be brave and glorious and vulnerable and full of love.

Eventually it worked. I walked in the front door. Raced upstairs. Threw out my old bras. Replaced them with my new ones. Had a nap. Hugged my husband when he got home from cricket. Had another little cry that turned into a laughing fit. And settled in for a night of take away dinner and watching Succession in bed. 

In three months I’ll have even bigger boobs but I’ll also have a tiny baby, and a heart close to bursting. 

I’ll be a new mother.

And I’ll be there for anyone who wants some company going bra shopping. 

Feature Image: Supplied.

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