After Decades, I Finally Fell in Love With My Boobs
For the longest time, the world around me seemed to hate them, including yours truly
Autumn apples. Ripe but still firm, not big, but a decent snack. It’s the perfect metaphor for my boobs, and one I really like. Finally!
Falling in love with my lady orbs took me several decades. Obviously, I’m not alone: Talking to other women in my circle of friends, not one claimed to have always been a fan of her breasts, no matter the size. Isn’t this odd?
Those conversations made me traveling back in time. To understand how my negative feelings towards my breasts started, and why I finally — now that I am 41 years old — could see myself in a different (more gentle) light.
Objectified, judged, and incarcerated: Tough times to be a boob
The relationship between my bust and me has been a rocky one. We had our quarrels, spurred by external forces. Then, in stoic ignorance, I avoided to look down at myself.
The male gaze can be mean
Puberty and adolescence years were tough. My body was changing, and I tried coming to terms with it. Whilst the innocence of childhood was slowly fading, my blossoming figure got way too much attention from men — and a lot of unwanted comments.
Catcalling was one-sided: Those guys liked my booty, but made cruel jokes about my small breasts.
Some of those men belonged to my family, proudly married to women who were well endorsed in the upper body’s softest region. “Walnut shells could be your bra size” and “Why do you even need a bra” were some comments, served with a laugh, especially to humor other dudes when we had company. I wonder if they knew how much those words hurt.
In our clique of friends, compared with my bestie, I was just called “flat” — not very creative, but a stinger nonetheless. Back then, my BFF liked the attention her breasts were attracting. She said so herself. However, I am certain that years later, the male gaze and being objectified did not become her favorite thing either.
Small breasts, low self-esteem
As a teenager, not surprisingly, I didn’t really like my boobs. After all, the world had told me that they were too small, insignificant even, and only a welcome target of ridicule. Thus, crossing my arms in front of my chest became my default position or rather, hiding mode.
I was curious to explore things with guys, but feared hanging out with them, too. They might notice and hate my small cleavage — a risk.
In retrospective, I now understand that I overcompensated my self-consciousness and internal body shame with overly extroversion. Wild dancing, experiments with alcohol and drugs, sexual aggression, and crazy shenanigans: Let them talk about the “good times girl” instead of the flat board. Self-destructive behavior, certainly.
Looking in the mirror, I tried to measure up to false idols: Hour-glass figures, big boobs, small waist, slender hips. Flaws were the only things I saw. And since I could not influence my breast growth, I tried to control my physical appearance in another way— by unconsciously sliding into eating disorders. Bulimia and anorexia would accompany me until I was 23.
The never ending bra odyssey
Some years ago, I firmly believed that bras needed to be decent. Like nuns amongst clothes. They had to be modest, almost invisible under shirts, and thick enough — or even padded — to cover the nipples. God forbid to display erected nips, which could be confused for showing too much excitement.
Ideally, bras had to have underwires to give support. But those came at a price: Constriction, pain, and angry red skin marks. When I arrived home back then, I’d take of my bra before the shoes — with a sigh of relief.
I found it tough to find a bra that didn’t hurt, but fitted comfortably and supported the gals. The right bra size was a riddle I couldn’t solve, and sometimes, even lingerie experts got it wrong. Once, a small cup gave me triple boobs, which the sales lady noticed and just shrugged.
Things improved with one bra professional who took her job and her measuring tape very seriously. With lots of poking, plucking and prodding, she put me into an unimaginable bra size. “Haha, funny”, I thought. “The cup is way too big, the under breast girth too small!”
The bra fit like a glove.
The sales woman smirked knowingly and just said: “They are not as ‘small’ as you might think.” Simulating exclamation marks. Flabbergasted, I wondered: Was everything relative, after all? Even my boob size?
Wonderful and healthy: Embracing my boobs for what they really are
Recently, I caught myself really liking what I saw in the mirror. I was only wearing a bralette — a delicate textile top. Nothing to hide any flaws, or to create an illusion. And yet, I loved the size, form and shape of my breasts. So what, you might think. But for me, this was monumental.
Body positivity — and honored by hubby
In my 20s, something changed: I truly saw myself in photographs for what I was — super thin. Shedding the distorted view of myself was the starting point of leaving my eating disorders behind. As well as my former boyfriend, another toxic guy who had encouraged me to restrict my food intake — and ignored my flat chest while praising my flat stomach.
Literally, he had tried to keep me small.
At university, I met the guy I would marry. He was completely different to all men I got to know until then: Uncompromisingly kind, not a single mean or sexist streak in his body, and very generous with compliments. In the beginning of our relationship, I thought he was making fun of me — the never ending stream of kind words was just so… uncommon.
With Hubby, I started to enjoy meals again. And slowly, I was accepting that giving compliments and tender touch were his way to honor my body and soul — all of it.
Next year, my husband and I will be together since 20 years already. Being the practical man he is, he never understood the point of wearing bras that cause pain. “Free the boobies”, “Go braless”, or “Is it naked Sunday?” are things he would and, in fact, does say. I never had to pretend not to see my breasts again. Hubby made me look at’ em, and like ‘em, too. He still looks fascinated whenever he’s catching me naked. Sometimes, I am, too.
Health is everything
Beauty fades, boobies sag, and what is left then? Over the years, I learned to look beyond superficialities and to embrace what’s more important: Spending time with loved ones, being fit, and staying healthy.
In my twenties, I discovered a new athletic passion: Surfing. Immersing myself into the ocean, trying to catch waves, is a humbling experience — and a challenging sport. When I paddle out to the horizon, laying on my stomach, my flatter chest has become an asset — less volume to smoosh.
Over the years, surfing changed my physique. Chest, shoulders and arms got more muscular. I admired my body for its strength and ability — not for looks alone anymore.
Hard times hit me, like many people, unexpectedly. First personal loss, then rare chronic illness: Back surgery triggered nerve paralysis in my right shoulder — causing pain, numbness and muscle atrophy. My former strong upper body got weak; surfing became impossible for a long time.
Trying to fight my way back to physical health, I had to wear a torso brace made of metal and hard plastic. Actually, it looked quite nice and accentuated my breasts: People confused me for a fashion victim in a kinky corset. However, this thing hurt like hell, pushing my shoulder blade forcefully in a correct position (see photos below).
After two years of wearing my torture device, a big part of my old form is back, but in terms of strength and range of motion, my right arm will never be the same. The good news is: I can surf again, and my chest is compensating somehow for the lost strength in my shoulder.
In a way, my boobs sit “higher” now. Elevated by stronger muscles and by standing more upright, proud of what my body overcame and is able to achieve.
I’m still learning to love myself
Looking at my body and especially at my chest, I am in a good place now. I like what I see, and I accept myself — all curves, hills and valleys. Freckles, stretch marks, spider veins, cellulite. Bodies are amazing vessels of strength, carrying us though life, allowing to experience a lot.
Nevertheless, I still have to truly understand that self care is not an egoistic act, but a pure necessity to stay healthy and happy. My family has a “hustle mentality” and caring about yourself is considered to be vain. Well, I started to break with this deeply rooted belief.
For peace of mind, I began with journalling, breathing mindfully, and meditation. All those activities help me to calm down, and to practice gratefulness and thinking kindly about myself.
And to keep my body healthy, I try to work out in a mindful way, to cook and enjoy super yummy dishes with Hubby, and to spoil myself. Sometimes even with a new bralette, that fits well and highlights what I’ve got.