One of my biggest parenting goals is to raise children who are comfortable in their own skin. I want them to know that all bodies are good bodies. I want them to understand that healthy bodies come in all sizes. I want to protect them from diet culture. At the end of the day, I want to make sure that my daughter knows both that she is beautiful AND that being beautiful isn’t the most important thing about her.
My daughter is 11 years old now, starting middle school, and on the cusp of puberty. This feels like a critical time to make sure she keeps hearing all my "Love your body, no matter what" messages. So, how do I talk to her about the fact that I’m getting plastic surgery?
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I’ve been thinking about my boobs since the fourth grade.
I still remember how self-conscious I felt on the first day of school, when I rolled into elementary school wearing that little white bra under my shirt with the cartoon picture of a panda bear on it. I was one of the first girls in my class to rock a training bra, and I felt like everyone was staring at me.
By junior high, I was already almost a D cup and had grown used to the way that boys hardly ever made eye contact anymore. I never quite got used to the way that grown men would stare at my chest, however.
I got older and my breasts kept growing.
When I was in college, I went to Victoria’s Secret with my roommates and had to pretend I wasn’t interested in buying a new bra because I didn’t want to admit it didn’t carry my size. The next few years were a bra shopping nightmare. Online shopping wasn’t really a thing yet (shout out to my fellow Gen X moms!) and I struggled to find bras in my size at all, let alone anything remotely cute or sexy.
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I hated everything about my body, especially my breasts.
Like a lot of women, I spent way too many years hating my body and trying diet after diet. I lost weight, I gained weight. I lost weight, I gained weight. Lather, rinse, repeat. I finally got therapy and started to work on loving my body. I got married to a man who always made me feel sexy (at every size) and then had some babies. I made a kind of peace with my F cup breasts when I was nursing my babies, marveling at how this part of my body that I’d felt uncomfortable with for so long was such a source of comfort for these little people. My breasts grew even more with nursing and as I put on weight in my 30s.
I tried to take up running after I’d weaned my daughter but found it was uncomfortable to run with breasts this large. I started thinking about getting breast reduction surgery and even made it as far as getting a consult with a surgeon. She said I was a great candidate and that insurance would even cover it because their size was causing me physical symptoms like backaches, shoulder grooves, and even recurring rashes (underboob sweat at 40G is REAL). She also told me that recovery isn’t always easy and that I wouldn’t be able to pick up my daughter for weeks afterward.
I backed out of the surgery for my daughter’s sake.
She was still little and was (and is) a snuggle bug. She called my breasts her pillows and would often sigh happily as she cozied up in my lap, resting her head against my chest. I felt like she would be too little to understand why I couldn’t carry her around or why parts of my body would become off limits to her as my incisions healed.
And then I started grad school and a new job, and then there was that whole global pandemic situation and another new job. The desire to get a breast reduction never really went away, but the timing never seemed right. Too many people needed me for too many things; the thought of taking weeks off to recover seemed impossible.
A Peloton class meltdown changed my mind.
During the pandemic, I got deeply obsessed with my Peloton bike. Exercise became my major form of stress relief. Almost every day I would take a cycling or yoga class and soon felt physically and mentally stronger than ever before. The more I worked out, the stronger and faster I got on the bike, but I kept getting frustrated in yoga classes because there were moves that I just could not do because my breasts were simply in the way.
One day, I was doing a class that featured multiple moves that I couldn't do with my chest in the way and I just lost it. I was tired of not being able to do eagle arms. Tired of the way I was always dealing with lower back pain and a terrible posture from the weight of my breasts. I called to schedule an appointment for a plastic surgery consult the next day.
When I met with the surgeon, she declared, again, that I was a great candidate for the surgery and that insurance would cover the cost due to the physical effects of macromastia (the clinical name for having Dolly Parton-sized boobs).
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I was thrilled and terrified.
Having surgery is always a big deal, and recovery from breast reduction is no joke. I was nervous about the idea of going under general anesthesia, but I was also worried about how to talk to my daughter about this. Would it seem hypocritical that I was telling her to love her changing body at the same time I was about to surgically alter mine?
Ultimately, when I talked to her about it, I told her the truth: I love my body. My body has done amazing things, including growing and feeding her and her brother. My body deserves kindness and respect. My body also deserves to have less pain, so I’m also fixing a medical problem so that I can keep being active in this body for a long time to come.
I'm being honest with myself, too.
I suspect that if I’d had the surgery when I was in my 20s or 30s, I would have been driven by hating my body. But now I’m confident that I’m motivated by loving my 40-something plus-size shape. I can love myself and want to change something about myself.
As I quickly approach my surgery date, I know that I can keep modeling that for my daughter, no matter what size my breasts are.
