Tight

By Reem Faruqi

This essay won first place in our Circle of Trust writing contest—exclusively open to Exhale members. Learn more here.

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In this bra, I am remarkable. I am no longer bony and flat chested. I am curvy. Confident. Dare I say, hot? I am nineteen years old. I am wearing my first Victoria’s Secret push-up bra. The nude underwire and padded cups squeeze and push my breasts into a too-tight-hug. I welcome the cleavage. In college, comfort is an afterthought to beauty. It is a girls-only party, and I’m not wearing my hijab.

I opt for my hair down in layers, a swishy black curtain of silk. I wear my go-to green tank top, and jeans so tight I can’t slide my hands in my pockets.

A girl who has been drinking shimmies over. She looks at me and smiles a slow smile that grows big and lingers on her lips.

Her words drip. Your boobs look really great in that bra. She steps closer, slurs You also have really big teeth.

I leave the party with my chest puffed out and lips covering my smile.

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I am unremarkable. I am thirteen years old. I am wheezing today and have to see the on-call male doctor, not my usual go to female doctor. The problem with asthma: I never know when it will strike, when my lungs will squeeze tight. Too tight.

My mother is unable to take me today so my father accompanies me. The doctor hands me a paper gown, tells me to undress. He’ll be right back.