Updated: March 23, 2021
Originally Published: Dec. 26, 2012
My breasts, affectionately known as “the girls,” and I have shared quite the adventure together. It wasn’t until I welcomed my daughter into the world that I truly recognized the disservice I had done to them over the years. Amidst pressures to achieve the perfect shape—smaller, less hairy, perkier—I grappled with unrealistic expectations. All of that shifted the moment I became a mother.
From my first training bra to the uncomfortable underwires that seemed to stab me in the ribs, to push-up bras that couldn’t contain them, I stuffed and squeezed my breasts into all kinds of colorful and stylish options. I plumped and polished them, preparing for admiration both in and out of the bedroom. But everything changed when I had a revelation: I had been wearing the wrong bra size my entire life. This realization hit me hard when I found myself at a bus stop, desperately removing my bra due to unbearable discomfort. My girls had simply had enough of being confined in cheap, uncomfortable bras, and they were sending me signals through intense back pain.
When my daughter was born, I was resolute about breastfeeding. The moment she emerged, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. As she nursed like a pro, my perspective shifted. No longer just push-up bra fillers, my breasts transformed into milk-producing powerhouses, and I felt liberated as I nursed her whenever and wherever she needed.
As my relationship with my breasts evolved, I found myself caring less about the opinions of others. I became adept at discreetly nursing in public, and I noticed the joy in seeing my breasts full of milk—a precious resource I now cherished. My daughter, in her innocent wisdom, named them Milk (the right) and Milky (the left). It was a delightful twist that I had only heard of before, and I found humor and warmth in her creative little minds.
With my daughter, there’s no need for push-up bras or meticulous grooming. For her, my breasts simply exist. The more accessible they are, the better. Since her arrival, the quality of life for Milk and Milky has improved dramatically. They receive affectionate hugs and are even included in bedtime stories. One day, my daughter pointed out a stray hair on Milky and asked, “What happened to Milky?” I took a breath, realizing she might inherit my genetic quirks. But instead of showing disgust, she gently patted Milky and snuggled closer, displaying genuine concern and love.
My hope is to instill in my daughter the same unconditional love for herself that she shows toward Milky, helping her avoid the self-imposed pressures I faced growing up. Reflecting on my past, I realize I spent too many years stressing over my appearance. Now, looking back at old photos, I see beauty where I once saw flaws.
Through the incredible journey of pregnancy and motherhood, I’ve learned to appreciate my body in ways I never thought possible—from my newfound curves to the stretch marks that tell a story of their own. Milk and Milky have forever changed my view of self-love and acceptance.
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Summary
This piece chronicles the author’s journey with her breasts, affectionately named Milk and Milky, highlighting the transformative experience of motherhood and self-acceptance. As she navigates breastfeeding and the pressures of body image, she finds joy in the unconditional love of her daughter and learns to appreciate her body in new and empowering ways.