Back in middle school, I found myself longing for a bra, even though I barely needed one. Every girl in the locker room had one, and I felt like the odd one out with my flat chest. At that age, I assumed the “boob fairy” just hadn’t visited me yet. Little did I know, I would wait many years, only to receive a bag that seemed almost empty.
I was the poster child for the “barely-A” cup. Flat-chested and proud, I felt like the ultimate member of the Itty-Bitty-Titty Committee. While supermodels flaunted their tall, lanky frames, I was the flat version without the height. Picture a blend of Marilyn Monroe’s curves and a supermodel’s bust—minus the bust.
Despite my efforts to embrace body positivity, my lack of breast size haunted me for years. I felt “unwomanly” during my teenage years, struggling with non-existent cleavage and ill-fitting swimsuits. I resorted to padded bras, hoping to create the illusion of curves. I often dreamed of having even a modest B-cup to balance my shape.
Now, I look back at that younger version of myself and smile. She had no clue about the incredible strength her small breasts possessed.
When I became pregnant with my first child, I relished the changes happening to my body. As my belly swelled, my breasts began to fill out for the first time. After giving birth, I experienced a remarkable transformation, quickly going from a B to a C, and then wondering if I had reached a D! Although this was just temporary engorgement, I settled comfortably into a solid B+. For the first time, my breasts made me feel undeniably womanly.
But it was breastfeeding that truly altered my perception. I had always planned to nurse, but witnessing my daughter thrive on the milk produced by my body was transformative. Her little rolls of baby fat and chubby limbs were a testament to the nourishment I provided. My breasts, once a source of insecurity, were now performing a miraculous task—creating life.
As my babies grew, so did my appreciation for my breasts. When my second daughter was nursing, my brother-in-law and his wife adopted a newborn. They asked if I could provide breast milk, and I was thrilled to help. I pumped for their baby while nursing my own, and it was incredible to know that my body was sustaining two little lives simultaneously. My once overlooked A-cups were now a powerful force, proving their worth.
Years have passed since I last breastfed, yet I continue to hold my breasts in high esteem. I like to think I would have learned to love them even without breastfeeding. After all, there are perks to having smaller breasts: they remain “perky” after three kids, they won’t sag, and I don’t need underwire for support. I can comfortably lie on my stomach and run without discomfort, even without a sports bra.
However, I doubt I would have recognized these advantages without experiencing the incredible journey of breastfeeding. It turns out that the “breast fairy” had a plan all along.
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In summary, my experience with breastfeeding transformed my relationship with my body and allowed me to embrace the beauty of my petite breasts. I learned to appreciate them not just for their appearance but for their incredible capacity to nurture life.