32E

Almost two years after my breast reduction, I'm reflecting on the size that I let identify me for so long.

I was in fifth grade the first time someone ever asked me out on a date. The boy slipped a crinkled, torn corner of loose leaf notebook paper onto my desk after recess. I opened the hot-dog style folded sheet as the room filled with the stench of prepubescent BO to see sloppy handwriting, the pencil marks already smudging the edges.

The note was simple and straight to the point.

Christina, you are cute. Will you go on a date with me?- Boy

Shocked, I hastily shoved the note into my back pocket before anyone could see. I quickly sat in my blue chair, as if the note weighed me down like a ton of bricks. For a million different reasons, I was never going to go on this ‘date.’ For starters, I was 10. Second, I would’ve died of embarrassment before telling a soul. Third, I hadn’t spoken one word to the boy who asked me out. The last part was the most puzzling piece of the equation. Why would he ask me?

But nonetheless, I was flattered for a million different reasons. My parents had just gotten divorced a month ago. My dad moved out and was living in a yet to be disclosed location. I was struggling to eat my lunch and had lost a significant amount of weight, which in fifth grade, just made me look even more awkward. Speaking of my appearance, I seemed to be the only one of my friends whose body was changing.

I had to start borrowing my mom’s concealer to cover the mosquito-bite looking, bright red pimples that starkly contrasted my pale skin. By recess, I had sweated the already patchy concealer off and just looked like I had played connect the dots with peach paint on my cheeks. For the first (and last) time, I was a head taller than both the girls and boys in my class. I felt like an American girl doll next to a bunch of Barbies – the “interesting” choice as opposed to the “pretty” one.

I felt like an American girl doll next to a bunch of Barbie dolls.

But perhaps most obviously was my emerging chest. Yup, at just age 10, I had a B cup. I pretty much skipped training bras and went straight to uncomfortable underwires from Target (this was unfortunately before the comfy Skims era).

My Justice graphic tees struggled to stretch over my lovely lady lumps, but I clung to pre-teen fashion more tightly than my emerging boobs did to my shirts. My neon, bedazzled clothing seemed to be the last connection I had to my childhood. The only thing that kept me tied to my friend group of non-broken families, smooth chests, and clear skin.

So, despite my immediate confusion and knowledge this ‘date’ would never come into fruition, I was flattered. I didn’t stand out in a bad way, but in a good one.

While I kept the note a secret, the boy didn’t. The news traveled fast via a game of telephone in the end-of-day carpool line.

“I heard Boy asked you out,” one of my male classmates exclaimed to me with wide eyes and a nosey grin.

I could feel my face go red, with heat spreading to the tips of my ears to look as if they were permanently sunburnt. I don’t remember if I verbally replied, simply nodded, or stared back.

What I do remember – most vividly is what he said next.

“Yeah, he asked you out because you have big boobs” as he looked shamelessly square at my chest.

In just four hours, I went from flattered to mortified. Objectified.

I felt the welt that started in my chest as the conversation’s beginnings began to rise with the heat alongside the Texas sun’s last daily sweep before it started to descend. Now well into my throat, I willed it to go back down – to sit in shame with the two monstrosities on my chest that started this entire problem. The more I focused on it, the faster it rose – to meet the red heat searing through my face, pressing on my nose, and eventually on the edge of my tear ducts. If I opened my mouth just one inch, it would explode in the form of tears. I refused, so I just sat there while the boy continued to stare.

It took what seemed like an eternity for my mom to pick me up. But the relationship was far from over – not with the boy who asked me out or the one who revealed his motive, but the one with me and my chest.

From that day on, I only wore sports bras that compressed my boobs so much that they laid flat. Straying from my usual rule-follower demeanor, I started wearing non-studio approved, but more conservative bras to my ballet classes. I desperately tried to find bras that matched my celestial blue leotard uniform, but the royal blue was still just different enough to make me stand out. In a line of perfectly pink tights, delicately laced slippers, thin chiffon celestial blue skirts and matching leotards, my Under Armor-lined protruding chest broke perfect uniformity.

My puffy chest also broke my movement fluidity. My cambré (back-bend) and circular port de bras (circular full body motion down to your toes and back) could only go so far without the weight of my chest throwing me off balance or employing my hip flexors to help compensate. Not to mention, I feared spilling out of my leotard every time I bent forward. In a sport where I was meant to give the illusion of walking on air, I felt held down by an anchor in both the physical and aesthetic sense.

Jumping hurt my back. Turning hurt my neck. Grande battements hurt my hips. All thanks to the extra weight on my chest.

By the beginning of sixth grade, I graduated to a C cup. I realized frilly, multi-colored shirts somewhat camouflage the size and suited my otherwise petite five foot, one inch frame. I realized I couldn’t borrow my friend’s swimsuits, so spontaneous pool parties were either not an option or required sacrificing a sports bra to chlorine discoloration and shrinking. I learned that when I wore a sports bra over an underwire bra, I’d look flatter but have red marks etched into my skin until the next morning when it was time to wear them all over again.

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By the end of sixth grade, I was a D cup and had just made the cheer team for the seventh grade year. And in Texas suburbia, that was my equivalent to middle school royalty. All eyes were on us for every pep rally, football game, and game days in general when we walked the fresh-cut grass-scented halls in our blue and yellow uniforms.

The day I was fitted for said uniform, I practically sprinted after the last bell rang to the home economics kitchen where our cheer sponsor would black out the singular window and we would change into last year’s uniforms for sizing. When I arrived, three of my teammates were already trading uniform tops – shells were the official name — and holding it up to their chests in the mirror beaming with visions of flaunting through the halls.

“Oh Christina,” my cheer sponsor, a fellow petite woman said with a smile “here you’d be an extra small,” she said as she handed me a shell.

Grinning, I walked into a corner to try it on so nobody saw my double bra apparatus.

I raised the knitted jersey material over my head and it slipped on seamlessly. Until it reached my chest. And then it just halted. Bunched up and refused to move an inch. I quickly shimmied out of the shell — as if the faster I tore it off my body it was almost as if it was never there to begin with. Slipping on my boxy PINK sweatshirt, I ran to the center table and snagged a size small before anyone could see me.

An inch over my chest, the shell stopped yet again. I tugged and shimmied and prayed until my face and arms were red with rash burn. I was playing tug of war with the shell and the shell won.

“Christina?” One of my teammates interrupted. “You ok?”

I could feel that welt I was all too familiar with rise again. “It won’t fit,” I choked out.

I could see the confused look on her face, processing my double bra as I stood in the corner, humiliated. I had disguised my chest so well that when people first saw its true size, they were often shocked. Often waited for an explanation – like I had somehow deceived them.

“My boobs,” I whispered, “are too big.”

It was the first time I spoke those words aloud to anyone but my mom or my aunt.

“Hey, embrace it,” she said. “I wish I had that problem” she said with a chuckle and tossed me a medium.

It gaped at the shoulders and waist, but it finally slipped over my chest.

Her response wouldn’t be the first time I heard that. I wish I had that problem. It’s understandable. People literally pay to have a larger chest. But at twelve, a D cup wasn’t sexy. I didn’t want to “embrace it” or stand out. I just wanted to fit in. To be a part of my team. To have physical and emotional relief.

Especially in middle school, I didn’t desire to come out of a shell, I wanted to simply fit in one.

And that continued through high school when my chest evolved to its final size: a 32E.

32E. In case you’re wondering, it’s a rare size. I could rarely find it at Victoria’s Secret or Target and exclusively shopped at Nordstrom to find full-coverage bras, which is not cheap.

Speaking of shopping, I looked at clothes not with admiration, but with anxiety.

“It’s cute, but it would never fit my chest.”

“If I wore that, everyone would think I’m asking for them to look.”

“If I wore that, nobody would ever look at me.”

“I’d look like a whore.”

“I’d look like a nun.”

“I have to figure out how to wear my bra with that”

“Great it has a built in bra… which is basically code for cuts my boobs off at the nipple.”

“If I don’t feel like breathing today, that could work.”

Luckily, I wore a uniform in high school so this inner monologue was reserved for formals, my musical theatre costumes, and swimsuits. And especially after I stopped ballet due to my passion for musical theatre and a permanently inflamed hip flexor, not having to worry about my leotard situation rid the main tension point. For the most part, I was too stressed with schoolwork and activities to think about my chest. So, when my mom brought up getting a breast reduction, I thought “eventually, but I don’t need it now.” It was a “one day” issue.

Until college.

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In college, I started to obsessively think about a breast reduction.

As a pretty lame, type A high schooler who lived a good distance away from my close friends, I hadn’t ever really gone out gone out until my freshman year of college. That is when I was introduced to the going out top – a tiny piece of fabric that covered basically only what it needed to cover. The goal was exposure. And my goal was, once again, fitting in. So, I borrowed and slipped into one of my friend’s tiny tops.

“Ow ow!” my girlfriends shouted, hyping me up as we sipped on Arnett’s Vodka lemonades that wreaked of rubbing alcohol.

“Christina – you got it! Flaunt it!!!”

“You look good!!!!”

While I was met with extreme approval – something my chronic people pleasing brain would usually soak up like a starving sponge, I felt even more awkward than I did in my developing tween body.

Since the rest of my body never physically grew into my chest, I didn’t have the space to grow into it emotionally or mentally. My bigger breasts didn’t feel like “me,” but a nuisance. An unwanted tenant I was involuntarily and inextricably the landlord to. They didn’t make me feel “sexy” or hot. And in the pre-Sydney Sweeney and Xandra (absolute queens) days, the iconic Sofia Vergara or Instagram models were my only mainstream examples of naturally bigger chested women. Those women were sassy, naturally funny, and owned their sexuality. Plus, they didn’t look like they were in constant back pain.

I decided I’d go on disguising my chest for physical and mental comfort. I still wore going out tops, but carefully curated my wardrobe to only feature a high neck and a cropped waist.

A boy in my freshman hall once told me I looked like a puritan coming home from a party in a black mini skirt and mock neck crop top (lol imagine if he saw a real puritan), but I wasn’t bothered.

Every so often, I’d have fits of confidence and wear something more revealing, but I’d return home with a lower back that felt like I’d gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson and like I had just played dress up. It wasn’t really me, but the pseudo-confident version I – and others – thought I should be because I had what seemed culturally desirable. But I didn’t feel desired. I felt defeated.

Cultural fashion norms waved a brief white flag on my internal bodily war when the pandemic normalized Zoom chic and sweatpants. With going out coming to a halt and baggy en vogue, I only struggled with the back and neck pain I was now simply accustomed to. I knew I had a max distance for running, I couldn’t do a back-bend anymore, and that I had to double-bra it if I was doing a HIIT workout. But again, it was a bandaid without adhesion.

In the fall of 2022, I had freshly graduated from college, had moved to New York City to work as a technology journalist, and been a bridesmaid in one of my best friend’s dreamy California wedding. And along with having a premature quarter life crisis, I also wasn’t physically feeling my best. With a history of hypothyroidism, I decided to get some bloodwork done. The doctor called a few days later with the results, saying (and I wish I was lying) “your white blood cell count is really high, but it’s probably not breast cancer or leukemia.”

I’m sorry, probably?!? PROBABLY?!? Probably is a word reserved for discussing the weather and approximate arrival times, not major, life-changing health concerns.

My doctor’s “probably” prompted a panic attack. I quickly googled how to do a breast exam and automatically felt what I thought to be a large lump in an area I had to eye for a while. I convinced myself that probably meant certainly and that I was actively dying of breast cancer. My mom (angel that she is) even had to fly from Houston to New York to calm me down and check it out for herself. I found out two days later it was a UTI most likely caused by not immediately changing out of my leggings after I worked out. Needless to say, that doctor got a strongly worded negative review on ZocDoc.

However, my panic coupled with a photo from my friend’s wedding where my singular boob took up the entire length of her chest, showed me that I had to change something. That day, I started researching breast reduction surgeons and scheduled a consultation.

At my consultation, my doctor validated what I had felt for so many years. My chest didn’t suit my frame aesthetically or physically. I had a lot of dense tissue that could be easily mistaken as concerning, and where my breasts sat was causing extreme pressure on my backs and hips. Where I was carrying their weight, she said, could have me hunched over as early as 40 or very far down the road, even fuse my discs together.

The metaphorical weight that burdened me for so long was starting to have physical consequences that would only worsen. But some of the emotional pain I had carried started to heal with a doctor affirming my concerns and helping to provide a solution.

I scheduled my surgery for February 21st, 2023.

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Leading up to my surgery, I unexpectedly had mixed emotions. Oddly, I found myself second guessing if I had been too harsh on my body – rather than it being too harsh on me. Am I not being thankful for my body? Am I overreacting? What if all those people were right, it is a good problem to have?

It was only when the reality of losing what I had long wished would vanish that I truly appreciated all my body had done for me. Yes, I had back pain. Yes, I struggled with not feeling like my outward appearance matched my inward characteristics, but I was still able to do the things I loved. Despite conditions not being ideal, my body still showed up for me. And just because it was changing didn’t mean I wasn’t appreciative. It just meant it could serve me even more. So, yes, I was saying goodbye but I wasn’t doing it out of spite. I felt I was paying respects rather than conducting a harsh eviction.

I was fortunate enough to have an incredible surgery experience. I had self-dissolving stitches, no drains, and very little pain. Plus, I’m naturally a back sleeper (my best friend says I look like I’m dead) so I easily conquered what many say is the hardest part. My mom and grandmother came to look after me, and my boyfriend brought me my favorite snacks the second I was out of surgery.

And crazily enough, one of my all-time favorite Bachelorettes and content creators – Rachel Recchia – was having a breast reduction just a week after me and openly, bravely sharing her journey on social media. I sought solace and courage in Rachel’s prep and post-recovery process.

But the best part was the moment I came to, I felt a complete lack of pain in the space between my neck and shoulders. Since puberty, I had become so accustomed to a tugging sensation from the back of my right ear all the way down to the small of my back. It felt like a rope that was so taught that it could snap at any minute. Hours after waking up from my surgery, the rope was finally dissolved. There was no more pulling – not on my neck or at my clothes or from the bra straps struggling to stay in place – just peace.

There was no more pulling — just peace.

That April, I had just been cleared to stop wearing my surgical bra 24/7 when I attended a black-tie gala in DC with some friends and my boyfriend. I dug out an old formal dress that I’d shied away from wearing because its lower back would expose my bra. Now, however, I could get away without one. I excitedly packed the elegant black dress, envisioning what it would look like on my new body.

When I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself in the dress, it felt surreal. It clung to my hips just right, highlighting my smaller waist, the semi-cape at the back draped perfectly to hit the small of my back – and for once, my chest didn’t feel constricted. Still, I habitually threw a pashmina over my shoulders, covering my chest as we headed into the Uber. I felt it was too good to be true – I couldn’t actually look or feel this good. I still needed my security blanket.

I still felt I needed my security blanket.

As we stepped out of our car, my pashmina unraveled. Being hastily ushered into the venue, I was struggling to get it to sit correctly and ended up just folding it into my clutch. “I’ll fix it when we get to our table,” I thought.

Engulfed by chatter, a mix of strong perfumes, and click clacks of high heels starting to descend the stairs, I was aware of how empty my chest felt. How light I felt. It was good, but I felt vulnerable. I was so used to consistently tugging at my dresses to get it to sit just right and not reveal anything, that I habitually did the same. I tugged at the somewhat loose fabric near my rib cage and fumbled with my pashmina, debating whether or not to put it on. In a moment where my mind was stuck between my new and old body – my old and new mentality, my flustered thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

“Hey,” my boyfriend leaned in and whispered, touching the small of my back, “you don’t need to fidget.”

His sweet blue eyes sparkled as he smiled before planting a quick kiss on my cheek.

“You look beautiful… you are beautiful.”

And with those simple words, for the first time in a long time, I genuinely felt it. I felt like me.