by Rhiannon G.

My breasts are large. My breasts make it hard for me to run, hard to do jumping jacks. Sometimes it is hard to find clothes – I have to size up in the chest, and then the rest of the body doesn’t fit. No button-ups. No strapless dresses. No  cute little bikinis. It’s been this way since puberty. Some of the guys in high  school used to call me “Tits.” Can you believe that? Terrible!

I came to really hate my breasts. I used to scroll through plastic surgeon’s  websites late at night, looking at before and after photos, fantasizing about what  I’d look like with less weight on my chest. In the U.S., large, pendulous breasts  are a problem to fix with bras and creams and major surgery. You want your  breasts to be big, but not too big; perky, with a specific shape and placement on  your chest. My big, sagging breasts were unfashionable, unsexy, unsightly.

And then, when I got pregnant, my breasts got even bigger! I felt totally  ridiculous. It was impossible to find maternity clothes that fit right. I told my  mother-in-law my new bra size, and she stifled a laugh: “I didn’t know they went that high.” I went to a lactation consultant to learn more about  breastfeeding; she cautioned me that I might have to hold my newborn  sideways to accommodate the size of my breasts.

My birth experience wasn’t what I’d hoped for either. After a long, painful labor that went nowhere, I was wheeled into the OR for an unplanned C-section. I was terrified. I was scared of the recovery from a major surgery, and I was scared I wouldn’t get a good start breastfeeding my baby. But the C-section went off without a hitch. And as the doctor stitched me up, a nurse put my baby to my breast, he latched on right away, and then… Suddenly my breasts had a purpose, other than aesthetics.

That moment really changed my relationship with this part of my body that I’d  struggled with for so long. For the first time, my breasts were doing what they  were meant to do – feed a baby. They grew and shrank, ebbed and flowed with   milk like waves on the shore. My large, dark areolas made it easy for my tiny  snuffling baby to find my nipples. My breasts weren’t too big for him; in fact, he  hugged them while he nursed, as if they were perfectly plush stuffed animals. They provided him with comfort as well as sustenance.

I quickly realized that after years of hiding my chest under baggy t-shirts, I  was not shy at all about breastfeeding in public. It turns out that all I needed was a  mental shift: it’s not my breasts’ job to be pretty or sexy. Their job is to feed my  baby, and they do it well. When he’s hungry, I am ready, not caring about what nasty high school boys, surprised mothers-in-law, well-meaning nurses, or  anyone else has to say. Breastfeeding has taught me to accept my breasts’ softness and their size. I can appreciate what they do for me and my son.

Of course, this revelatory experience has not been all gentleness and reverence. My son squeezes my breasts, pets them, kneads them. He’s bitten my nipple, scratched my breast, leaned and put enough pressure on a full side to squirt milk up into the air. He smiles after nursing, and milk drips out of his mouth onto my clothes. He reminds me that we’re mammals. That we share this  breastfeeding experience with cows and calves, dogs and puppies, foxes and kits curled in their cozy dens, safe and warm for a moment of connection.

If you let it, breastfeeding can strip away beauty standards, self-consciousness, and shame. Breastfeeding can be a reminder of what’s most important.

I love my son, and I love breastfeeding for what it’s given both of us. I’m not  ready to say I love my breasts, but I’m finally at peace with them. What a  wonderful side effect of becoming a mother.

Supporting Breastfeeding Families–Today, Tomorrow, Always

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