I Waffled on Getting a Breast Reduction - but I'm So Glad I Finally Did

Get the Full StoryWhen I was 11, I wanted bigger breasts - at least, I thought I did. From an early age, the truth of what I wanted was muddled by what it seemed like other people wanted: large breasts and a thin body, an ideal defined by men and embraced by many women. I didn't have long to wait: I was a C cup by 13, a D cup by the end of high school, and when I finally got fitted by a professional in college, a 30G.

Large breasts were currency in the '90s and 2000s, when I first became aware of myself as a sexual being. Pamela Anderson, Carmen Electra, and Jennifer Love Hewitt were aspirational. Boys in junior high talked about "big" girls in a reverential tone. Large breasts meant power, in a world where young girls didn't often get much.

Large breasts might mean power, but they made life hard.

Large breasts might mean power, but they made life hard. I thought about my breasts a lot; it was unavoidable. When you have a small rib cage and a large cup size, you can't waltz into Target and pick up a bralette - or any bra at all. Throughout my 20s, I became deeply familiar with bras you could only find online or in specialty stores, matronly swimsuits, and expensive visits to a tailor. I massaged the angry red grooves in my shoulders, wiped the underboob sweat that cast a damp shadow over my favorite season, and cried in dressing rooms.

By the time I started considering a breast reduction, I was a long way from sixth grade; I didn't want to contribute to a world where women get treated better because they met arbitrary, sexist standards. No one close to me believed them: my husband, friends, and family were in favor of anything that improved my life. But when I thought seriously about undergoing the surgery, I hesitated. Ignoring intense cultural messaging about what's considered attractive takes a will of steel I don't always have. Instead, and told myself I'd think about a reduction after I had a child.

I hesitated because I didn't hate my breasts - sometimes I liked them. I didn't have gender dysphoria. Bra and shirt options were better now shout out to Wildfang, the best button-down maker in the game . While not wrong, these were red herrings distracting me from the truth of my apprehension: I wanted to feel pretty and powerful, and I'd internalized the misogynist idea that larger breasts meant that.

At 35, I had my daughter and weaned her, and was finally starting to trust my feelings about my body; having a child made me more in touch with it than ever. I spent a lot of time researching reductions, reading thread after thread on r Reduction and trusted medical websites. At a Korean spa, a close friend who'd had a reduction showed me her new breasts; she looked great and I knew the scars wouldn't bother me. Another close friend gave me a recommendation for a surgeon. So my husband and I met with an eerily unflappable man who did this for a living, our toddler daughter in tow. He listened carefully, answered my questions respectfully, and gave me a recommendation for a new cup size, then added, "But I'll do whatever you want. You tell me."

My surgeon's perfectly neutral, mildly uncanny demeanor removed him from the equation - it forced me to confront myself. What did I actually want? I wanted my back to hurt less. I wanted to stop buying 80 sports bras designed by NASA because my breasts needed space-age technology to hold them up. I wanted what most people want - to move through the world with ease. Despite all this, I told myself I didn't hate my breasts enough to get a reduction.

The pros vastly outnumbered the nebulous and unconfirmed "people might find me less attractive."

Eventually, the truth trumped the sexist ideas I had internalized. It wasn't easy; they run deep and sometimes you don't know you have them until you do some digging. My journey of acceptance wasn't linear, but looked something like this: I stared at myself in the mirror and realized that while I didn't hate what I saw, I wasn't particularly attached to it either. Big breasts were not key to my identity. I made a list of pros and cons, and the pros vastly outnumbered the nebulous and unconfirmed "people might find me less attractive." I drew on a trick I learned in therapy: take your insecurities and imagine someone you don't respect saying them. I picked Luke in junior high, who thought St. Paul, MN, was the coolest city in the United States also the only city he'd ever been to, because he grew up there and called me homophobic slurs in the hallway. Now, I imagined him questioning my decision to get a breast reduction: "You'll be less hot with a breast reduction." "You've gained weight so your boobs will stick out farther than your stomach. No one likes that." "Why would you do that to yourself?"

It worked. It worked really, really well. If Luke and his adult counterparts thought I was making myself less attractive, I didn't care. The idea of caring felt absurd; I was my own person, not a reflection of someone else's desires.

I went into surgery as calm as you can be going into surgery. On the drive home, my chest felt so light, I cried happy tears. Breast reductions have one of the highest rates of satisfaction, and I am no exception. I love my 32Ds and the improved quality of life they bring: I love how I look and how I feel. Going for my first post-surgery run was a revelation, the first of many: slipping on a dress without worrying about how the top part would fit. Taking my bra off at the end of the day, something I'd heard other women talk about but never understood, because my breasts were so heavy it wasn't actually comfortable. Being able to buy any bra I wanted. Moments like that remind me that patriarchal beauty standards are ever-changing and never real, but my happiness is. It's real and it's spectacular.

Rosamund Lannin she her is a freelance writer with over a decade of experience covering bodies, feelings, and how they interact. This journey led to articles in places like Lifehacker, The Billfold, Apartment Therapy, and Vice.

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