Victoria's Real Secret

On access, permission, and learning to want what I was told wasn’t for me

At some point in high school, it became a status symbol to carry around the little pink bags from Victoria’s Secret. They were meant to be a wink: proof that you’d bought something a little sexy to wear under your clothes. For me, carrying that bag was an inside joke with myself: Victoria’s actual secret was that she didn’t sell any bras my size, but you still got the bag if you bought something that did fit, like an overpriced thong.

My first lesson in lingerie was simple: no matter how womanly my body was, I wasn’t “sample size,” and that meant sexy lingerie wasn’t meant for women like me. If Victoria’s Secret, the only real mainstream lingerie store in the mall, didn’t sell my size, where was I supposed to go?

There was Frederick’s of Hollywood, technically. But the stores weren’t nearly as ubiquitous. This was before online shopping, when you were limited to whatever actually existed at your mall. And at least in my circles, it came with a reputation. Less “sexy and empowering,” more naughty-nurse costume.

So, without a place to buy “fun lingerie,” I was left buying my bras at the dreaded “specialty stores.” The ones that carried “extended sizes.”

No flirty little lace numbers for me. I needed sturdy bras with extra-wide straps. I started referring to them as “over the shoulder boulder holders.”

For the next few decades, my bras were utilitarian, not sexy. I tried to make up for it with fun, cute, even sexy panties. But it wasn’t the same. I could never find a matching set.

Somewhere along the line, I absorbed the idea that a matching bra and panty set was the pinnacle of lingerie. The thing meant to make a man drool. Or, more importantly, to make me feel sexy and confident.

Then, a few years ago, I stumbled across Adore Me through an Instagram ad. I still remember the first thing I ordered: a sheer black bra with a black cat appliqué, sold with a matching thong. The appeal wasn’t the theme so much as the possibility. They carried sizes well beyond what I’d ever seen offered before, which meant, theoretically, this might actually work for me.

I kept my expectations low. But when the set arrived, I held my breath and tried it on. And it fit. More than that, I looked sexy. I was wearing a matching set — the kind I’d always assumed belonged to someone else. Meow.

I eventually realized that Adore Me offered a subscription box, and I started getting pieces in the mail each month. Not everything worked. Sizing wasn’t always consistent, and some pieces were a miss. But over time, my lingerie drawer filled up. Not just bras and panties, but bodysuits and corsets, in different colors and fabrics I never would have tried before.

What mattered wasn’t that every piece was perfect. It was that lingerie was no longer off-limits. I could experiment. I could decide what felt good on my body. Every piece I own makes me feel sexy and confident — even if it never leaves the bedroom.

Here’s the kicker: as great as all that lingerie is, I can’t actually wear most of it under my clothes, at least not the bras. Day to day, I still need sturdy, utilitarian support. But even there, things have shifted. I’ve found styles that feel a little more feminine — and yes, a little more plungey — than the ones I started out with.

Ironically, Adore Me was acquired by Victoria’s Secret in 2023 — the very brand that taught me, decades earlier, that my body didn’t belong in the fantasy. The move was likely meant to modernize the image, borrowing from what Adore Me had done well for years: inclusive sizing, diverse models, and bodies that looked real, not airbrushed into submission. In my experience, though, something shifted after the acquisition. The quality declined, the prices crept up, and after a few lackluster boxes in a row, I canceled my subscription. I might still order something occasionally — but the point isn’t the brand anymore. The point is that there are now options. Choices. Access that didn’t exist when I was a teenager, clutching a pink mall bag and pretending it meant something else.

These days, lingerie isn’t something I wear to impress anyone else. It’s not something I need to justify, hide, or make practical. Some of it never leaves my bedroom. Some of it exists purely to remind me that I get to decide what feels beautiful on my body — even if no one else ever sees it. I spent years believing sexy was something reserved for smaller bodies, different women, a future version of myself. Turns out, it was never off-limits. I just needed permission — and eventually, I learned how to give it to myself.