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Abstract

ger scale.They looked nothing like I’d been taught to expect. They weren’t smooth or round or perky, at all.For years, I wished they’d grow into themselves and perk up a little. But they remained steadfastly the same. My bra size came to feel like a part of my identity, something I could rattle off like my astrological sign or Hogwarts house. I’m a Pisces-Hufflepuff-36B.Every story I’d heard about adult changes in breast size were linked to childbirth. Since I have not and don’t plan to give birth, I never expected my boobs to change it up on me after all this time. Until they did.As the pandemic dragged on, my bras became increasingly uncomfortable. I reasoned, at first, it must be simply because I’d gotten used to not wearing them every day. Or because there were a bit old, and probably I should shell out for some new ones.Then, I listened to a podcast about bras. Mostly it was about sports bra technology, but they talked a little bit about bra sizing in general. The expert being interviewed mentioned that if you could place two fingers on your bare breasts above then cup, then you were wearing the wrong size bra.I could fit three.“I think my boobs got bigger,” I said to my fiancé, helpfully cupping them in my hands as if to illustrate the point.He rolled his eyes as if it was obvious and agreed to help me take my measurements as instructed by the internet.Sure enough, I wasn’t a 36B anymore. I had skipped right on past C and landed as a 36D.The fact I’d been trying to ignore made numeric — these heavy, unfamiliar things hanging from my chest were mine. Years after I’d wished for breasts that didn’t vanish entirely when I lay flat on my

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back, here they were.And I didn’t want them.I couldn’t deny the probable cause, a slow and steady weight gain over the years since the onset of my chronic pain condition first made my body a stranger to me. The pain and stress and stillness and medication had left me in a body that felt unfamiliar in so many ways.These new, gigantic boobs were just the latest development.Even though I want so desperately not to feel this way, these boobs often feel a bit like failure. They feel like a heavy reminder that I’ve not done as women are taught and made myself smaller. That instead, I’ve grown into taking up more space in this world.They feel like another way in which growing older has made my body into something I hardly recognize. They don’t feel like mine. I never thought I’d miss them, but I long for my saggy, easily-wrangled B’s every time I cram my D-cup breasts into a sports bra and head out for a run.I had to make myself get rid of the old bras. I didn’t want to admit it’s unlikely I’ll need them again. A part of me still expects that I’ll wake up one day in the body that was familiar to me for so many years.And probably, one day, I will. I won’t have stepped back into the old shape, but rather, I’ll have grown to feel at home in this one. Eventually. I hope.Until she changes on me again, of course. Because that’s what bodies do — they grow and shift and change, no matter how women are encouraged to fight against it.So even if it’s hard, and unfamiliar, I’m trying to learn to love the boobs a younger me only dreamed of and accept that the only constant in life is change. Even, apparently, when it comes to your bra size.</article></body>

I Always Wanted Bigger Boobs — Until I Got Them

From B cups to D cups and all the body image in between

Like my mother, I hit puberty early in life. I was, as far as I knew, the first of my classmates to start my period. I could visually confirm that I was the first to grow breasts.

Kids aren’t always the best at navigating difference. Being so tall and well endowed for my age, I drew a lot of teasing from my peers and unwanted stares from adults.

My boobs and I had a tenuous relationship from the beginning. I was embarrassed of them and how they made me different.

Sometimes I think I must’ve willed them to stop growing, since nothing about my genetic lineage or body build suggested I should have B cup breasts. And yet, they arrived quickly and comfortably at B, where they remained for many years.

As much as I resented their early arrival, as boobs became more common in the classroom, I grew ashamed that mine hadn’t shown up to the job properly.

If I took off my bra at a slumber party, my girls sagged lackluster on my chest despite their relatively small size. In a bathing suit, the stretch marks that traced them were on clear display, implying quick growth that I felt should’ve given them larger scale.

They looked nothing like I’d been taught to expect. They weren’t smooth or round or perky, at all.

For years, I wished they’d grow into themselves and perk up a little. But they remained steadfastly the same. My bra size came to feel like a part of my identity, something I could rattle off like my astrological sign or Hogwarts house. I’m a Pisces-Hufflepuff-36B.

Every story I’d heard about adult changes in breast size were linked to childbirth. Since I have not and don’t plan to give birth, I never expected my boobs to change it up on me after all this time. Until they did.

As the pandemic dragged on, my bras became increasingly uncomfortable. I reasoned, at first, it must be simply because I’d gotten used to not wearing them every day. Or because there were a bit old, and probably I should shell out for some new ones.

Then, I listened to a podcast about bras. Mostly it was about sports bra technology, but they talked a little bit about bra sizing in general. The expert being interviewed mentioned that if you could place two fingers on your bare breasts above then cup, then you were wearing the wrong size bra.

I could fit three.

“I think my boobs got bigger,” I said to my fiancé, helpfully cupping them in my hands as if to illustrate the point.

He rolled his eyes as if it was obvious and agreed to help me take my measurements as instructed by the internet.

Sure enough, I wasn’t a 36B anymore. I had skipped right on past C and landed as a 36D.

The fact I’d been trying to ignore made numeric — these heavy, unfamiliar things hanging from my chest were mine. Years after I’d wished for breasts that didn’t vanish entirely when I lay flat on my back, here they were.

And I didn’t want them.

I couldn’t deny the probable cause, a slow and steady weight gain over the years since the onset of my chronic pain condition first made my body a stranger to me. The pain and stress and stillness and medication had left me in a body that felt unfamiliar in so many ways.

These new, gigantic boobs were just the latest development.

Even though I want so desperately not to feel this way, these boobs often feel a bit like failure. They feel like a heavy reminder that I’ve not done as women are taught and made myself smaller. That instead, I’ve grown into taking up more space in this world.

They feel like another way in which growing older has made my body into something I hardly recognize. They don’t feel like mine. I never thought I’d miss them, but I long for my saggy, easily-wrangled B’s every time I cram my D-cup breasts into a sports bra and head out for a run.

I had to make myself get rid of the old bras. I didn’t want to admit it’s unlikely I’ll need them again. A part of me still expects that I’ll wake up one day in the body that was familiar to me for so many years.

And probably, one day, I will. I won’t have stepped back into the old shape, but rather, I’ll have grown to feel at home in this one. Eventually. I hope.

Until she changes on me again, of course. Because that’s what bodies do — they grow and shift and change, no matter how women are encouraged to fight against it.

So even if it’s hard, and unfamiliar, I’m trying to learn to love the boobs a younger me only dreamed of and accept that the only constant in life is change. Even, apparently, when it comes to your bra size.