Boob diaries: 6 women share their breast hang-ups and joys

I breastfed not one, not four, but six children

I was a modest 32A at my wedding; I went up to a DD bra during pregnancy. But I felt much more in love with my breasts as they were developing, and I appreciate my breasts a lot more now: These puppies are tough. I make incredible milk and tons of it, which is the ace in my back pocket if I ever need to quiet a fussy toddler. My nipples always protruded a bit, but thanks to six kids, they’re always out now. My husband measures them in Smarties. And my breasts are still highly functional sexually — even if they’re these saggy, empty, stretch-marked pancake-looking-type things. Even if they look like bottle tops.

I haven't worn a bra in decades

Growing up in France in the ’70s, I convinced myself I was going to have very prominent breasts. They never materialized. When I was 16, I saw a picture of Jane Birkin in a sheer top. I thought she looked really good, really sexy, and she had no bra. And no breasts! So I stopped wearing a bra. Before coming to Canada, I lived in Denmark, where there was no judgment at all — I regularly saw topless women eating lunch in the park. We’re more puritan here: Living in Quebec, I felt social pressure to wear a bra, but I couldn’t stand the pinching and squeezing. The sagging is bearable, and there’s a lot more freedom.

As a trans woman, breasts helped me feel like myself

Before I had breasts, I felt like my body was viewed as adolescent by my intimate partners. At 29, I had been on hormones for two years, but breast enhancement was a way to make a permanent physical commitment to my transition. Surgery is not a goal for every trans person, but for me, being able to pass as female in public was important for my survival, for my everyday getting along.

I wasn’t going for total porn-star boobs — I just wanted a pair that were nice to look at and hold and that fit the rest of my body. I wanted them to look like I could have grown them myself. My doctor and I decided on round, cohesive silicone gels.

Coming out of any cosmetic procedure, there’s a tendency toward a sort of buyer’s remorse — like, “What have I done?” “Will people still find me attractive?” “Will I still find my body attractive?” I had to come to terms with my new shape  — getting used to cooking with these things in front of me, and having to move my arms differently. But it was exciting. It wasn’t like I needed breasts to be female, but now I look at my body and recognize it as my own.

Before I lost my breasts, I went shopping for new ones

Thanks to a high occurrence of familial breast cancer and my own dense tissue, I’ll earn my “previvor” badge when I have elective surgery later this year. To help prepare my head and heart for what lies ahead, I attended an event made for women like me. The big draw at Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day (or “BRA Day”) — an annual, Canada-wide event designed to educate prospective patients about their post-mastectomy options — is the Show & Tell lounge. It’s a private, women-only space in which a handful of generous ladies doff their tops, offering the rest of us a first-hand view of their implants, scars and all. Following a quick introduction and some nervous laughter, the volunteers began undressing. First up was Karen, who whipped off her tank top, took my hand and matter-of-factly placed it on the curve of her chest, asking me whether I could feel the implant. I couldn’t, but admittedly, I wasn’t pressing very hard. I’m not sure what I was expecting from the evening, but it was refreshingly devoid of survivor platitudes. I was just standing in a room full of beautiful women, discussing the merits of teardrop and round implants. (My surgeon later recommended round due to my small cup size and natural sag.) But more important than what the models were — or weren’t — wearing was the undeniable fact that they are doing okay. It made me feel like I might be okay too.

At 17, I was done with my 34Js

I wanted breasts before I had them, but then I grew into a 34J. Guys would make comments and assume I was promiscuous because I had large boobs. It used to feel like I was carrying two bags of sand — like there was so much weight on my chest. I had a lot of back pain, and when I talked to my mom about the possibility of a reduction, she thought it was a good idea. She had one too, at 18. Now I’m 18 and a DD. It was a pretty big surgery, and I was a bit sad to downgrade, like a chapter in my life was over. And then I think of the ease of shopping for my prom dress last year — it was long and blue with a sparkly bodice. But it was still pretty booby.

I'm hooked on shaking what my momma gave me

I was in the military for eight years, so my femininity was just decimated. Then I developed a chronic thyroid disease and I fell into a really bad depression. Desperate for some exercise, I thought, “Wouldn’t burlesque be kinda fun?” I wanted to challenge my anxieties about my body. In my class, there were women of all sizes. I remember making some joke about my body ,  and one of the other artists went, “No, no. We don’t do that here.” I had a chance to shake what my momma gave me, and I was hooked on that feeling. The reveal of your breasts at the end of a performance is very brief, and pasties cover my innie-and-outie nipples, the only part of my body I’m uncomfortable with. Now, when I’m looking for a costume, I think, “What’s going to highlight my boobs in the best way?” Bullet bras! 1940s silhouettes! All of a sudden, everything seems to require a sparkle.

More: Everything you want to know about breasts — and then some What I’d tell my teenage self about breasts 14 bras for the pragmatist or the provocateur