Growing up as a woman at the dawn of the 21st century means facing more pressure to conform to societal standards of beauty than ever before. In the age of Photoshop and airbrushing, it’s hard not to compare yourself to the flawless faces and bodies of the celebrities that have become ever-present in our media feed. The problem is that it’s become equally difficult to measure up, which has resulted in a generation of young women with some serious body image issues. It’s impossible to look like a Kardashian, but many girls find themselves trying anyway, and when they inevitably fail, they take it out on themselves, on the parts of their bodies that have fallen short of the expectations put forth by magazines and movies, on the breasts that will never, ever be big enough, the thighs that are too chubby, the stomach that doesn’t lay flat.
For me, all that pressure culminated in the relationship I had with my breasts. Because they’re supposed to be the pinnacle of womanhood, right? A woman’s breasts are representative of her whole personhood. There are expectations to be met in every part of a woman’s breasts— their size, their shape, their symmetry, the time in which they develop, the way they look, the way they feel. It’s a lot of pressure to conform surrounding a body part that comes in an endless variety of shapes and sizes, very few of which actually fit that particular standard.
I’m no exception to that rule. I grew up with all kinds of insecurities surrounding my own breasts, my boobs, my tits, whatever you want to call them. I was a late bloomer. I watched with envy as my peers developed long before I did, filling into their adult bodies while I remained with the flat proportions I’d grown up with. By the time I was twelve, the girls in my class were filling into Victoria’s Secret bras while I was barely starting on training bras. I told myself that I was fine with it, but I wasn’t. I was still a kid, but I longed for the features of an adult woman that my mediated society had told me I should have already had.
I asked my friends about their own relationship to their breasts, to find that from person to person, our experiences barely differed.
“I’ve had small tits all my life,” one friend said, “I never really thought anything of them until everyone else started getting huge boobs and I didn’t, so I started to get insecure.”
I asked a different friend if she likes her breasts now, at 20. “Sometimes I think they’re cute but most days I still think they’re too small… I think sometimes I wanna be more sexually desirable. And society has kind of drilled into me the idea that the way to be [sexually desirable] is with big boobs.”
Which is exactly the problem. Anyone will tell you there’s no one way to be sexy, but that’s certainly not a value that’s being reflected in the vast majority of our media.
And as a result, as I came to terms with my own body, my insecurities surrounding my boobs remained. They were still too small, too pointy, too stretch mark-y, and my nipples were far too big. They were fine, but nothing special, I thought.
Until I got them pierced.
I was 19, newly finished with my freshman year of college. I’d learned to accept my body for all its faults and flaws, but that doesn’t mean that my insecurities faded away. They were still there, and likely always will be to some extent, but at the very least, I’d learned to live with them by then.
I’d always had a little bit of a goth streak in me. I already had two tattoos under my belt and many more planned, and while I had a wishlist of piercings, I had yet to actually get any. But then my cat died, and I was sad, and I wanted to do something reckless. The answer to that, for me, was to get my nipples pierced.
So I made an appointment at a trustworthy shop, accompanied by a slew of supportive friends willing to indulge my impulses. Two needles and seventy dollars later, I left the shop aglow in the dopamine rush of a new piercing.
What I didn’t know yet was that the decision I’d just made would be one of the best I’ll ever make, and that the decision to pierce my nipples would change my relationship with my body forever.
Because that dopamine rush never faded. I can’t count how many times I’ve stared at my own tits in unapologetic, vain admiration. My breasts were no longer flawed or just “fine.” They were extraordinary. Any apprehension or anxiety I’d ever felt surrounding my breasts or the idea of people seeing them melted away. I’d show them off at any available opportunity. Have you seen my tiddies? No? Do you want to?
I don’t care anymore if my nipples are too big, if my boobs are too pointy, or if my stretch marks are noticeable. They’re great and I love them for what they are, piercings or not, because they’re my tiddies. It just took getting them pierced to get that into my head.
The thought of “desirability” never even crossed my mind. I couldn’t give a shit if anyone, male or female, thought my tits were more or less attractive with jewelry in them. The only thing that matters, the only thing that still matters, is that I love them.
I know that nipple piercings are pretty extreme and they’re not for everybody. I’m not saying that everyone needs to get them pierced. I’m just saying, if you’ve ever considered it, but maybe held back because your nipples are too big or your boobs are too pointy or you have stretch marks, f*ck. that. Follow that impulse. It’ll change your life.
And the same goes for any other body parts. Don’t like your nose? Septum rings are super trendy right now. Feel like you’ve got weird feet? Get a foot tattoo. Put something you like in or on any body part you’ve ever felt insecure about and you’re bound to start liking it, I promise.
I’m aware I’m not forever going to be the person I was when I was 19. As impossible as it seems right now, I know that there could come a day when I don’t want my nipple rings anymore, and I’ll have to start loving my nipples for what they will be then, with their weird scarred-up holes. And that’ll be okay, because I know I’ll never regret having done it.
I’m nearing 21 now. I’ve accumulated six piercings and six tattoos, and I’ve never been happier being myself.