- My Relationship With… TikTok: Revisited
- My Relationship With… My Hair
- My Relationship With… Christmas & Grief
- My Relationship With… University
- My Relationship With… Grief
- My Relationship with… Job-Hunting
- My Relationship With… Therapy
- My Relationship With… My Scars
- My Relationship With… Diet and Depression
- My Relationship with… The Gym
- My Relationship With… Shyness, Confidence and Identity
- My Relationship With… Graduation
- My Relationship With… Recovery
- My Relationship With… My Boobs
- My Relationship With… Open Days
- My Relationship With… Eczema
- My Relationship With… Grey Hair
- My Relationship With… OCD
- My Relationship with… Dating Apps
- My Relationship With… Acne
- My Relationship With… Body Hair
- My Relationship With… Being Single
- My Relationship With… The Pill
- My relationship with… an STI
- My Relationship with… TikTok
- My Relationship With… Anti-Depressants
- My Relationship With… Unreasonable Perfectionism
- My Relationship With… CLP
- My Relationship With… Voices and Anti-Psychotics
- My Relationship With… Baking
When I went to my first ever bra fitting at about 11 or 12 years old, I was told that I was a 32E, but that ‘if we’re lucky, we might be able to squeeze you into a double D‘. At 21, I now weigh in at a hefty 32H, or sometimes even an I if I’m unlucky. I’m not gonna lie, a lot of girls say they’re jealous or they’d like bigger boobs, but I’m here to tell you that there is such a thing as too much boob. I’ve spent the majority of my life absolutely hating my body, largely because of my big boobs. They’ve always made me uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. In an effort to learn to love what I’ve got, I jokingly named the year twenty no-bra-nineteen, and honestly? It’s been a bumpy ride, both literally and figuratively.
My relationship with my boobs has most certainly been a journey. At first, I just tried to pretend they didn’t exist. I vividly remember getting changed in the PE dressing room, and having a classmate tell me that at 11 years old, I had bigger boobs than her mom. Not long after that I was catcalled for the first (but definitely not the last) time of my life. Ever since that time, I did all I could to cover them up. I wore baggy, high collar tops, and even changed my posture so that they’d be less visible. As a shy, bullied kid, I hated the attention, and felt different from everyone else and their A-cups. But most importantly, it somewhat took my childhood away from me. All of a sudden, I was faced with older men whistling and acting as if I was a woman all of a sudden. I was a pretty late bloomer when it came to anything to do with boys, and while I couldn’t find the words to describe it then, I now remember being scared and sad to see them look at me the way they did. I was only 14 the first time the thought of cosmetic surgery crossed my mind, considering anything to be rid of these things causing me immense psychological discomfort and physical pain.
As I grew older, I got less insecure, and started to dabble in fashion again. Nevertheless, bras were an essential, and bikinis without support were a big no-no. I get a lot of shit for saying I hate my big boobs, but despite the sexual connotations they hold, boobs my size still don’t make me feel desirable when most models and hot influencers are slim with small to medium sized breasts. In the rare chance that you do see large boobs, they’re usually fake and incredibly perky, or held up by some miracle titty-tape. That meant that even when I got more comfortable with getting my tits out, it was always combined with an expensive heavy duty bra strapping the girls in.
The first time I ever went without a bra was the Humanities Christmas Ball this past December and, if I do say so myself, I looked hot as hell. So right then and there, as I was devouring my Charcoal Grill junk food I made a decision to really push myself in the upcoming year. To a certain degree, this has really worked. I can’t say I love the way I look, but I’m definitely way more confident with the way my boobs and my body look now than I was just a year ago. You can’t get over a fear if you don’t put yourself out there. You can’t grow in your comfort zone.
Nevertheless, I don’t know if I’ll ever fully love my body. Despite making massive strides forward there are still days where I think I’m utterly disgusting to look at. I worry that my boobs look saggy or about what people will think of me, because the reality is, if me and my B-cup friend wear the exact same outfit, we’re going to get very different reactions. What might be chic on a smaller size, is often very quickly labelled as slutty on big boob gals like me. Not only is it unfair that my entire existence is sexualised, but if I do decide to show my boobs the way they naturally are, that’s no longer seen as attractive, because for some reason the media and the male gaze seem to have forgotten that gravity is a thing that exists. In an effort to end the year with a bang (both literally and figuratively), I ordered a really low cut dress for the Media Ball, and can now proudly say that our current editor of Wessex Scene has me nicknamed as ‘tit-tape‘ on her phone, because at the last minute I got so insecure I grabbed some gaffa-tape from my housemate’s car and went to town.
In the end, boobs are absolutely amazing whatever shape or size they may be, and I truly hope whoever is reading this is content with the way they look. But if you’re not, you are not alone, and there is so much more to our insecurities than just melons or itty-bitties. So I’ll leave you with some words of encouragement my housemate once gave me: ‘they’re you’re boobs, they always look amazing.’