When I was in seventh grade, I begged my mom for a bra. I definitely didn’t need one—my chest was as flat as a pancake—but all the other girls in the gym locker room were sporting them, and I felt like the odd one out, standing there with my bare, strapless shoulders. I thought the “boob fairy” just hadn’t paid me a visit yet. Little did I know that I’d be waiting for ages, and when she finally did show up, she’d come with an empty bag and offer up just a sprinkle of breast dust.
I’m basically the poster child for the “barely-A” cup. I’m the reigning queen of the Flat Girls Club and the president of the Itty-Bitty-Titty Committee. You know how supermodels are all long and lean with flat chests? I have that situation, but without the height to go along with it. Picture Marilyn Monroe’s figure but with a supermodel’s lack of curves—that’s me in a nutshell.
Despite my attempts at body positivity, my petite breasts have been a source of insecurity for most of my life. I often felt “unwomanly,” struggling with my nonexistent cleavage and the inability to fill out a swimsuit. My go-to was padded push-up bras, hoping to create the illusion of having something there. I often dreamed of having at least a B-cup to balance my pear-shaped figure.
Looking back at that younger version of myself, I can’t help but shake my head. She had no clue how powerful those tiny boobs could be.
When I became pregnant with my first child, I began to appreciate my body’s changes. My belly rounded out beautifully, and so did my breasts. They filled out in ways I had never known before. After my daughter arrived, I went from a solid B to a C, and then—wait a minute—was that a D?! Of course, it was just temporary engorgement, but I eventually settled at a comfy B+. For the first time, my breasts made me feel like a real woman.
But the real game-changer was breastfeeding. I had always wanted to nurse, but I didn’t realize the profound shift it would create in how I viewed my body. Watching my daughter feed, I was in awe of the fact that my breasts were creating everything she needed. I marveled at how her body was growing, fueled solely by my milk. My little, flat, seemingly insignificant boobs were performing a daily miracle. I was amazed and found myself falling in love with them.
That love only deepened as my babies grew—yes, even someone else’s baby. When my second daughter was nursing, my brother-in-law and his wife adopted a newborn boy. They wanted him to have breast milk, and I had plenty to spare, so I pumped for him while nursing my own little one. Both of them were adorable roly-poly bundles, and my breasts were producing rich, creamy milk for two. Fast forward four years, and they also nourished my third child. Breastfeeding felt like my superpower. My A-cups had shown up to the party, proving their worth to the world.
Years have flown by since I stopped breastfeeding, yet I continue to hold my breasts in high esteem. I’d like to think I would have learned to love them regardless, even without the experience of nursing. After all, I’ve discovered the perks of having smaller breasts. They remain “perky” even after three kids, there’s not much to sag, and I don’t rely on underwire for support. I can comfortably lie on my stomach, and running or jumping is never a hassle—even without a sports bra.
But I doubt I would have recognized all these benefits if I hadn’t witnessed the incredible things my breasts could achieve. Perhaps the breast fairy had a master plan after all.
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In summary, my journey from insecurity to appreciation for my small breasts was largely influenced by my experiences with breastfeeding. Through nurturing my children, I discovered their true power and value, helping me embrace my body and recognize its unique strengths.