It’s actually tomorrow, but tomorrow is supposed to be crazy since I have taken up this other little part-time gig, plus the kid, plus Christmas party, plus my regular job… But I wanted to stop and talk about my boobs for a little bit.
Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of my breast-reduction surgery. A year ago on this day, the day before my surgery, I looked completely different. Well, maybe not completely. But different enough. I took a picture of myself that night a year ago, just in my bra, so that I can look back on it and see the difference. I will spare you—and me—the embarrassment of posting that picture right here, but I still do look at it from time to time. I mean, I am still chubby and thanks to my smaller boobs now my stomach looks bigger… But still, I feel so much… lighter. More free. Even after a year, I am grateful every morning when I put my clothes on. I don’t have to hide my boobs, or figure out ways to make them look smaller, or make sure that I am not showing too much cleavage, or that my bra straps don’t leave my shoulders painful and bruised. Ugh, just… Such a huge difference in my life, it’s hard to even put into words.
And what is weird is that in a strange, unexpected twist, my boobs that I have tried for so long not to let define me, in a way launched my writing career. Writing about them got me on The Huffington Post, and the confidence from that got me to submit to and get published by other publications. Before I wrote the essay about my surgery, I did hesitate about putting it out there. I mean, it is a deeply personal, intimate subject. But the universe returned so much goodness to me thanks to that article — not just in the form of publishing success, but in the form of other women who wrote to me in private, admitting that they, too, struggle with their breast size, or are thinking about surgery. I hope many of them have gone ahead with surgery in this past year and I hope they feel as amazing as I do.
It was such a lightbulb moment to realize that just because nature made me certain way, I don’t have to stay that way. I can change things. I can cut off or erase any part of me that I don’t like or that makes me uncomfortable. And why not? Would it have been heroic or honorable in some way to carry around this weight for the rest of my life? For what? For whom? Why? No need to suffer—whether the weight is physical or emotional—chop it off.
Anyway, I just wanted to acknowledge the day and the date and the occasion. My essay is still up on Full Grown People where it originally appeared. It’s still one of my favorites.