My breasts, affectionately dubbed “the girls,” and I have traversed a wild journey together. It wasn’t until I welcomed my daughter into the world that I truly recognized the disservice I had done to them over the years. Amidst societal pressures to conform to an ideal—being smaller, less hairy, perkier, and more restrained—I grappled with a myriad of negative feelings towards them. But everything shifted once my daughter arrived.
From the awkwardness of my first training bra to the uncomfortable stab of underwire, and from push-up bras that failed to contain them to my first nursing bra that didn’t quite fit, I stuffed, squeezed, and wrestled them into a parade of colorful and fancy fabrics. I primped and polished them for admirers, both in and out of the bedroom, all while struggling with my unrealistic expectations.
One fateful day at a bus stop, in a moment of sheer desperation, I ripped off my bra and had a shocking revelation: I had been wearing the wrong size my entire life! The girls were fed up with being confined in cheap, uncomfortable bras, and they made their discomfort known through relentless back and shoulder pain.
When my daughter made her grand entrance, I was resolved to breastfeed. The instant I laid eyes on her, I was captivated. As she nursed like a champ, I found myself making the awkward but empowering transition from viewing my breasts as mere push-up bra fillers to seeing them as milk-producing powerhouses. Suddenly, I felt free to whip them out whenever I needed to nourish my hungry baby, disregarding the opinions of onlookers.
As I embraced this new role, my perception of my breasts transformed. I became more confident in nursing, and I paid less attention to the curious glances and comments from others. My breasts glowed with pride when they were full of milk—what I fondly referred to as “liquid gold.” My daughter affectionately named them Milk (the right one) and Milky (the left one), taking the concept of baby names to a whole new level.
With my daughter around, Milk and Milky seemed to thrive. They received nurturing hugs, and my daughter frequently checked in on them, asking how they were doing. I remember one day, as I read her a story, she pointed out a stray hair on Milky and innocently asked, “What happened to Milky?” I paused, realizing that she had inherited my genetics—stray hairs and all—but instead of being repulsed, she patted Milky gently and snuggled closer, concerned only out of love.
My aspiration is to teach my daughter to cherish herself unconditionally, just as she loves Milky and as I love her, before she succumbs to the same unrealistic standards I once imposed on myself. Reflecting on my past, I realize that I stressed over my body unnecessarily; I now see beauty in every photograph of myself, even if I couldn’t appreciate it back then.
Through the miraculous experience of growing, birthing, and nourishing my daughter, I’ve come to respect my body in new ways—from my newfound curves to the stretch marks that resemble a map of my journey, and of course, to Milk and Milky, who will forever be celebrated.
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In summary, my relationship with my breasts has evolved from one marked by insecurity to one of empowerment and acceptance, thanks to the love and innocence of my daughter.