A Story of My Boobs: Beneath the Surface

From awkward growths to grateful moments, join me on a journey of embracing my body’s changes — comfort, self-love, and a little laughter along the way!

Let’s talk about the journey of love — well, learning to love — my boobs. Even though I’ve always had what people might call “sumptuous” boobs, I’ve had plenty of reasons to feel uncertain about them. It started later for me than most — I didn’t get my first period until I was 14, well into ninth grade. Soon after, my chest began to fill out, just enough for a nice handful. Then came a change at nineteen: I went on the pill, and suddenly, I went from a B cup to a C cup. But it wasn’t just my bra size that changed. Out of nowhere, I found a couple of stubborn, dark hairs around my nipples. Plucking them? Painful doesn’t even cover it.

Around this time, I began noticing how women’s bodies, especially their boobs, were portrayed on TV and in movies. That’s when I started comparing. Every screen star seemed to have these perfect chocolate-brown nipples, while mine were soft pink, like pale onyx. And they didn’t pucker on command either — they needed a little encouragement to “stand up” so to speak. But the thing that got to me the most? My breasts’ firmness.

They weren’t soft and yielding; they were, well, firm enough that I could skip a bra well into my thirties without anyone noticing (unless I decided to do jumping jacks, that is!). It made me feel self-conscious like they didn’t fit the softer image I thought they were supposed to have. Learning to embrace these quirks has been its journey. They may not look like what I see on screen, but they’re real, and they’re mine. So, here we are now. These days, my boobs have a new rival: my belly. They’re like a couple of curious adventurers, racing south, slowly transforming into those broad, flatter shapes that seem to invite a bit of back fat and side boob into the mix. With every extra pound, they seem to think, “Why not expand a little more?” I said goodbye to the pill back in my early fifties, thinking maybe that would give them a little rest. But nope — they just kept growing.

And now, funny enough, I find myself longing for those perky, firm boobs I once found so inconvenient. I remember wishing for a Marilyn Monroe figure, thinking it was the ultimate prize, without a clue about the realities that came with it.

But big boobs do come with some perks, I’ll admit. They let me breastfeed my children, and for that, I am genuinely grateful. These days, though, I’ve let go of beauty standards and shifted to pure comfort. I skip the bras and reach for cosy undershirts, letting them do the modest work of keeping everything in place.

It’s a whole new chapter with my body — and honestly, I wouldn’t trade it.

The Bottom Line

In the end, it’s not about the size or shape of my boobs; it’s about accepting the changes and learning to love what’s real. What once seemed like imperfections have become a testament to my journey, each curve and shift reminding me of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. From the awkwardness of adolescence to the wisdom of maturity, my body has taught me to embrace comfort over expectations and gratitude over comparison.

So here I am, no longer chasing an image, but fully appreciating the woman I am today — flaws, boobs, and all.