I Want To Love My ‘G’ Cup Breasts

I hope my body is not NSFW.

My five year-old recently asked me how I got my large breasts. ‘Did you swallow two balloons?’  he asked.

Balloons. Heads. Balls. Cantaloupe.

My breasts have been compared to many things over the years, but how did I get them in the first place? I guess we’d have to ask a geneticist.

This is the story of my boobs, and how I am trying to learn to love them.

First things first: they are natural,  don’t fluctuate much with weight, and I’ve had them since I was a pre-teen.

I remember the fast way I climbed puberty’s bra-size ladder:  A, B, C, D, DD, DDD…..by the time I was 19 and working in a lingerie shop I learned I was a cup size E. Who knew?!

This was, perhaps, the only period in my life I actually loved my boobs. Maybe it was just working around bras all day and the incredible discount I got for myself. Maybe it was due to the fact that being out of high school I no longer felt like some sort of freak of nature who needed to hunch over in order to avoid stares.

I was only a teenager when I learned to feel shame for my breasts. This was societal, not a particular incident. I was taught at church that if boys saw my cleavage I was somehow responsible for their naughty thoughts. I was taught ‘modest is hottest’, but how can you hide size D breasts?

I tried. Oh, goodness, how I tried. I invested in tight sports bras and wore them over my regular bras, because the two combined created a squashing effect. I taped them down. I literally taped them down hoping to get less stares during the school day. If I wore turtle necks I had a huge ‘boob shelf’ that people would stare at, and if I wore more suitable low-cut tops, I could not conceal the ‘shameful’ cleavage.

I noticed over time how moving around the classroom or working in groups meant I would have to bend down, and bending down meant


So I tried to never bend over, constantly aware of the awkwardness of my body.

In gym class, I learned that running not only hurt like hell for someone of my body shape, but it again attracted the kind of attention I was told was my fault. So I didn’t run. I didn’t jump. I tried to avoid changing into my gym outfit (although to be fair the girls in the locker room were never mean or stared – thanks, friends).

I got a ‘D’ in gym to match to my ‘D’s. 

If you knew me in high school, you are probably thinking ‘But…………’ and yes, there is a ‘but’ and something which  took me decades to figure out:

Because of the tremendous attention paid to my enormous breasts, I was the first to take my top off during stupid teenage dares and car games. Red Light Green Light, anyone? If you’ve been on a limo ride with me, you’ve probably seen me topless. I did ‘flashing’ games, etc.

My adult brain realizes this was me trying to take back some control over my body.

Playing these games which involved me asking for attention felt better than the constant attention I received without asking for it.

When I had my son 5 years ago, I was determined to nurse. There was not a nursing bra in the entire state of North Dakota which fit me, but luckily some online shopping did the trick. (But have you ever tried bra shopping online? What a nightmare.)

In any case, I nursed my son for 11 months and at first would hide in bathroom stalls and sit on toilets, because nursing covers didn’t work with my by-then ‘G’ cups. I had to have at least one breast out in the open to properly feed my son. People stared and stared and stared if I did this in cafes or on playgrounds. I would basically only go places like the mall which had nursing rooms because I hated the disgusted looks I would get.

One time on a plane I had a literal stare down with a man in a suit two rows up and across from me. I always nursed on take-off and landing and even with a blanket covering the terrible act of feeding my son(sarcasm) there was always a bit of boob showing. It’s how my body is shaped.  This man stared at me with vitriol and I narrowed my eyes and stared right back as my son suckled. I would not be shamed anymore, I decided. No more bathroom stalls. And I urge and encourage the normalization of the normal act of breast feeding.

When I look back on my nursing experience, I feel happy because it was special. But I also remember how hard it was to find a pump that fit my breasts. I remember how nursing accessories were usually quite unsuitable for my body shape. I remember the tapes in public.

A few years ago, I received a referral to have a breast reduction. Insurance would pay, and it would be plastic surgery, and I would no longer have to contend with these breasts I had spent years and years trying to hide. The plastic surgeon was kind; he told me he could do a good job. But then he told me I may not be able to nurse if I had another child. So I backed out, for now. But sometimes, on days when my shirt will not stay buttoned at work or when I notice I am slouching again to minimize my breasts, I will reconsider the surgery I could have gotten. I will probably get a reduction some day, for health reasons.

But for now, I am trying my best to love my G Cups, which, for the record, just don’t get smaller, despite me losing 20 pounds this spring and summer.

And I’m also trying to help those who may also have large breasts and feel like they spend too much time trying to hide their bodies. This isn’t how we are made. We aren’t made to hide. And we shouldn’t have to.

If you’re like me, you’ve tried to hide them and it just doesn’t work.

I’m trying my best to learn to love these G cups.




Tiny Feet

I felt frazzled today as I pulled on my lycra, getting ready for the gym. I was running late to meet Lauren and had just come from the most bizarre writing workshop at my college. I had talked on the phone to my dad on the way home and he sounded sad, and I felt a million worries and stressors, both others and my own, bearing down on me. I couldn’t wait for my workout as I needed an outlet, and I wasn’t finding it in my messy bedroom as I scrambled to find gym clothes.

Alistair came lumbering in, a three year old in my tennis shoes. I said, “Oh, wow, what are YOU wearing?”, thinking I need those shoes now; I’m running late.

“These are my GIANT shoes!” he said, and I quickly grabbed a pair of my loafers and said, “Here, these can be your giant shoes.”

He wasn’t convinced.

“Erm, they can be your DRAGON shoes?” I tried, and quickly made the switch before he could protest. I wasn’t really paying attention to him, even though he’d come into my room to see me.

“Why are you going to the gym?” he asked, as he does whenever he sees me put on workout clothing.  He’s in a ‘Why?’ stage and I love it most of the time.

“Er, to workout.”


“So I can get my exercise.”

I was pulling on my top at this point, shoving one foot in a confiscated shoe.


Ugh, I thought. I hate life this afternoon. I don’t know the answer to any WHYs at the moment.

“Because  I’m FAT and I need to lose weight,” I said briskly, knowing it wasn’t the answer I should give a three year-old but beyond caring.

“Mommy,” Alistair replied earnestly from his perch on the bed. “You’re not fat, you’re perfect!!”

I turned to look at him.

There sat my  little son, so innocent and sincere, desperate to chat with me, and barely able to walk in my tennis shoes, so tiny are his feet.

I went and  gave him the biggest hug.

I felt a rush of pure love, on both our parts.

But I left the house feeling guilty about not being present for him.

And I thought about my shoes as I started the car. I want to leave him big shoes to fill, in the figurative sense. I want to be the best example he has. I’m sure most parents do.

I thought about his comforting words.

I grew up always comforting my parents. I chose to do that; it’s just in my nature.

But I don’t want Alistair to grow up thinking he has to be a little adult  all the time.

I want his worries to be as tiny as his feet. Right now, I just want him to be…three.

I learned an important  lesson today, and I still got in an hour at the gym.

Alistair may be the only human who thinks I’m perfect, and that’s okay.

We can’t be perfect. We can only be the best versions of ourselves, and that is my goal.

Each day is another chance to give it a try.


All Hail The Workout Buddy

CancuuunTwo roads diverged in a wood.

And, I…

I took the road that led me straight to the gym, with a friend.

And that has made all the difference.

My idea of exercising was going to yoga once a week (yay), doing the treadmill once or twice a week while I read magazines (meh), or trying to incorporate exercise into caring for my three-year-old,  Alistair, such as chasing him down  supermarket aisles when he’d try to run away or doing the vertigo-inducing game of swinging him by his arms (or armpits, I’m aware there is something potentially wrong with swinging him by his arms for too long).

But these feeble attempts at an exercise routine weren’t getting me any results. I felt great after yoga, accomplished after the treadmill, and almost always tired after taking care of Alistair all day. But it wasn’t igniting anything in me to get physically active.

And then, I had Lauren.

Well, I’ve had Lauren for half of a decade. We first bonded over growing up in Colorado and our mutual love of modge podge crafts. We did a lot of those while we served together in a church calling with pre-teen girls. Those were the days when neither of us had kids, and I’d stress over things like learning to crochet (I failed, she excelled).

She and I recently took a trip to Cancun together, when I won Fan of the Week on the TODAY Show. During this trip, my phone tracked our steps. We were walking SEVEN MILES A DAY on our luxury vacation. The resort was just so darn huge (first world problems) and we wanted to see all of it.  We were also swimming, and lounging in the sun. But we came back exhausted and ill, even though it was sooooooooooo totally worth it.

It was during these days of post -vacation blues we decided to be gym buddies.

This change has made the biggest difference to my workout routine!  We keep each other accountable, we push each other to go further, and the time just flies by.  I used to do a slow mile on the treadmill and call it quits. Now we are training for a 5k and yesterday managed 6 miles (on the bikes) as well as strength training.

One of the highlights of my week was when Lauren and I did one hour of hydro conditioning.  We were sweating to the oldies WITH the oldies (including a super fit elderly instructor), and pool noodles, in a very surreal swim class.

Burning calories, building muscle, getting healthy AND girl bonding time. It’s a win all the way around.

PS. Until I get a banner……here’s the link to my new venture in health and wellness….


Knowing Your Naked Body (and Naked Face)

Selfies with the 7x magnifying mirror

I recently had the opportunity to experience that most rare and exotic of situations: solitude.

Not the kind of alone time you get when your toddler is napping and you finally collapse on the couch and look at your emails, and not the kind of alone time you get when you’re driving between errands or managed a solo trip to Target to pick up diapers. No, this was real solitude, or at least the winter 2014 version of it (It was more ‘fireplace suite for one’ than Thoreau’s ‘Into the Woods’).

I drove four hours one way to visit my mom last Sunday. My husband and I agreed I would go alone since I was going to do the return trip the same day, and our two-year old wouldn’t enjoy over eight hours in the car. I knew a snow storm was coming, but I still decided to give in to temptation and make an IKEA run…and late that night, while I was still 175 miles from home, I grew incredibly sleepy and started driving over ice patches. I decided to be sensible, and I checked into a roadside motel in a tiny town off the interstate.

I woke up the next morning to nearly a foot of snow. The entire hotel was abuzz at breakfast, talking about how no one was going anywhere that day. I dug my car out and took a test drive to the grocery store. I had to help a lady push her car out of a snow bank which had formed while she was shopping.

I quickly returned to the hotel after stocking up on food and checked in for another night while the storm raged outside. For the first time, it hit me. I was totally alone with nothing to do. No errands to run. No people to talk to. I sprawled out in the bed and ate Cheetos (bad, I know). I went down to the pool and sat in the hot tub in my pajama shorts and a tank top, hoping no one would tell me off. I went back up to my room and showered and as I hung my pajamas in front of the fire I realized I had nothing clean to wear. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just be naked for now.

This hotel room had a lot of mirrors all of a sudden. A LOT.  There was even 7x magnifying mirror above the sink.  I realized I was audibly going ‘Ahh!’ when I caught sight of myself.

The endless, makeup-less face. The 7x magnifying mirror strikes again.

I hadn’t looked at my body in a long, long time. I loved my body while pregnant, but as soon as I gave birth I felt uncomfortable with it. So much of my shape had changed. My stomach had a new, looser jiggle, and my midriff harbored stretch marks over what used to be smooth, youthful skin. I’d read all of the memes about being a tiger who earned my stripes- but I still didn’t want to look at them.

I breastfed for 11 months and my breasts became something else to me. Beautiful, but in a different way. They were functional. That was it. I only saw them in the context of feeding, or pumping, or trying to fit into new bras, unsuccessfully.

And maybe that’s how I came to see my post- baby body. Different, functional.


My husband says I wander around naked, but that’s just because I can never find  clothes I’m happy with to cover  this new body of mine. When I find them, I cover up and certainly don’t do what I used to do- preen, change outfits, compare how my butt looks in certain jeans.

All of a sudden, in this hotel room, I was faced with something I’d been avoiding: what I really looked like naked.

I didn’t stand around naked all day– that 7x magnifying facial mirror was my next project. Whoa!  The pores. The unplucked eyebrows. The nose hair. I could see it all, so so clearly.

I took the above photos in the magnifying mirror as this blog post took shape in my mind. I was getting to know my body, my face.  And why hadn’t I done it earlier?

I love my son. He is absolutely worth every mark, scar, tear, stretch, and hormonal shift. He is my world.

But my body is mine alone. My face is unique to me; it tells my story.

I feel we need to honor ourselves more, inside and out. My body deserves more than the shameful covering I’ve been quick to toss on while never acknowledging  what’s under those clothes. My face deserves a closer look.

I need to learn to love my body again- to nourish it, to know it, to treat it how it deserves.

Day Four: Boobs

My boobs were bigger than my son's entire head. And this is when they were 'smaller.'
My boobs were bigger than my son’s entire head. And this is when they were ‘smaller.’

Note: This post is about breasts.

America. Land of the free and the home of the uniboob.  And double boob. And under boob. And side boob. And back rolls caused by ill-fitting bra straps.

Because American bra-makers (if there is such a thing- it’s probably more like American bra-decision makers) seem to think A through D cup is enough. And if that’s not working for you, just go up in inches. Spilling out of a 36D? You’re probably just a 38D in disguise!

These bra-decision makers sit in their ivory towers,  and most of them are probably men. The women who ARE there have worked hard, so they probably don’t have time to eat and are resting comfortably on their thrones in teeny tiny sexy lacey bras; sensible B cups.

But down here in the real world, boobs don’t stop at D. And for some of us, not even DDD.

Not me.

I’m picking on America for a reason. I worked at a lingerie chain in Scotland as a holiday temp one year, and I fitted many women’s bras. It was very common for a woman to be a 34E or a 36F. This main stream lingerie brand, known to every Britain I’m sure, didn’t hide their higher cups on a shelf of shame.  The Es, the Fs, the Gs…they were all right there, with the cute bras!  In every single size!

And every single Scottish co-worker said to me, “Americans are terrible with their bra sizes! They’re all in the wrong size!”

I quickly learned this was true.

So what’s a girl to do? There’s a lovely shop in Edinburgh which carries bras AND clothes for the large busted woman. It’s amazing. But now I’m wandering like a lost sheep through bra sections in American shops and I’m coming up empty handed.

Just this week I went to a store which should specialize in selling to larger chested women. The highest size I found was DDD, so I tried on a ton of styles hoping one would fit. No luck.

Finally the saleswoman pointed me to the little shelf in the corner which sold F-H cups. I was running late at that point, so I grabbed two in a cup size F and went home.

They’re still too small!

I may truly just be a freak of nature. I’ve always had super large breasts. But now not even an ‘F’ fits me and I have to imagine if I lost weight my cup size may go down as well.

I(nterestingly, the smallest my boobs have ever been is the year I was breastfeeding. I loved it! They were so…manageable. To me. It’s all about perspective, I suppose.  But I prayed to be one of those women whose boobs changed forever after childbirth.

Well, they certainly aren’t as perky, so that change remained.

But as soon as I stopped nursing, they got bigger again! I asked my doctor, who just shrugged and said ‘Yep.’

So. If there’s one thing I’m really looking forward to with losing weight, it’s being able to fit nicely into a bra. It’s being able to wear shirts that don’t automatically show cleavage,  even when they aren’t designed to. It will be the luxury of being able to bend over without worrying about who is seeing what.

Not that it should really matter.  Breasts are wonderful. And for now the only solution is to start wearing turtlenecks, and I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.