It seems my whole life, everyone has had something to say about my breasts.
At the age of ten, as my body was changing and confusing me, I specifically recall my grandmother commenting on the development of my breasts. “Oh my gosh, Katie, when did you get THOSE?” she would say, pointing to my slightly protruding chest. I didn’t understand the fuss; I didn’t think what I had were truly “breasts” yet. When I began thinning out around seventh or eighth grade—with very little breast development since the onset of puberty—I was told, “Oh, don’t worry. You still have time. They’ll grow.”
Once I entered high school still being able to wear bras from middle school, people’s odd fascination with my chest only increased. My friends would relentlessly tease me about how small my breasts were. Anytime I would say something about my breasts or bras, I would receive a comment along the lines of, “What boobs? You don’t have any.” I had male friends who would defeminize me by saying things like, “I think my boobs are bigger than yours!”
I had my first serious boyfriend my sophomore year of high school. In my junior year, I allowed him to see my breasts—something I hadn’t allowed anyone to do before. After that first encounter, there were times I would reach behind me to unclasp my bra and be told to stop. When I asked why, he told me my breasts looked “bigger”—which I took to mean “better”—in a bra.
All of these negative comments about my body really took a toll on how I viewed myself. While changing clothes for gym class, I would face my locker so my back was to the other girls. I didn’t want them to see my small breasts while theirs were practically spilling out of their Victoria’s Secret bras. I would buy B cup bras to make my breasts seem larger and hope no one would notice the blatant gap between my bra and where my breasts really were. I would pray for God to let my breasts grow even the slightest amount because that’s what I thought would make me more attractive. More desirable. More like a “real” woman.
I don’t think people realize the weight their words hold, especially over young women. I grew up absolutely hating my breasts because everyone around me had nothing but belittling comments to say about them. I felt inadequate for something as ridiculous as the size of two lumps of fat on my chest—something that is completely out of my control.
Here I am, a nineteen year old woman still wearing size 32A bras. I still deal with unprovoked remarks about my breasts. My grandmother makes comments about how my younger sister’s breasts are larger than mine. Just last night my fifteen-year-old cousin told me I don’t have any boobs.
Though I still receive negative observations about the size of my chest, I’ve developed a mainly positive view on my breasts. Admittedly, there are still days in which I am self-conscious of their petite shape—some days more than others—but now I love myself enough to love my breasts as well.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an Itty Bitty Titty Committee meeting to get to.