It’s amazing how our womanhood has evolved into the 34A vs. 34C. But it’s no wonder when you look at the history of women- Hollywood, puritanism, feminism, and the perplexities of our role in it. For me, I’ve always been an extremely thin athlete ballerina with very small accents. To be a ballerina you were often encouraged to wrap and secure yourself from becoming prominent. This added to the astute lines of becoming graceful. My mother always encouraged me as a child and I always loved myself for who I was. I was never mocked or ridiculed for my small frame, I was never told I was lesser than. I had other details that far outweighed the size of my details and for me it simply didn’t matter. I was a complete being. It wasn’t necessary for my survival and it didn't take charge of my confidence.

Marriage and motherhood changed all of this. My body now had purpose to keep my baby alive and to keep her fed.  For most women bottle feeding or transitioning to food would help this but unfortunately for my little darling she was struck with the inability to do either. So I was her only source of food for close to 18 months. This lead to 2 years of constant breast feeding every 2-4 hours a day and night to compensate for her robust baby size.

 

The complexities of my body's purpose

had grown so exponentially I was now

obsessed with its function.

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It was a place she found comfort when she was scared, it was the place she was nourished when she was hungry. The complexities of my body's purpose had grown so exponentially I was now obsessed with its function. Somehow I became in the same breath more desirable to both my husband and myself. I was overly curvaceous and I was transformed into a higher purpose. I traded my thin waif frame for this womanly body. This is how it was supposed to be right?

I found myself on the proverbial tight rope trying to identify with my feminist role while embracing an age old belief that raising my child, and taking time from work, was necessary for my daughters well being. It was just as much my need as it was hers. I felt it through every part of my being and any separation from her was like taking air from my lungs. My mother and father's absence growing up encouraged these decisions.  Somehow, as stern as my position was, I still felt lost in this translation after decades of focusing on my position in society.

I was on the other side of myself breastfeeding; using quaint plastic caves to pump resources from my body. I was hiding in airports to breast-feed with the threat that doing so could have consequences. I was becoming the mother who wanted to take off work and be a good mother and wife. Had I abandoned my feminist ideology and somehow transitioned into the traditional housewife and motherly role I had been running from my entire life. It gave me purpose, I was needed, and therefore to me I was important. Yes, I was embracing my new self, body, mind and spirit. It was just my husband and I now. We had no family knocking on our door. My family that raised me had mostly passed and my husband’s family was estranged. My role was vitally important. No room for puritanical views. I was embracing all of me and it was liberating.

 

Shortly after we were able to overcome my daughter’s health crisis we were able to start her on regular food. The cross contamination of ideals from one friend to another on sleep deprivation, co-sleeping, breast feeding, extended breast feeding, and vaccinations thrust me into a world of unknowns. My body was worn and my mind even more so.

The transition of doing what was best for her and what was best for me often became hazy. She always came first in my mind.  As much as I wanted to, my body grew weary. My milk after 2 years became hard to produce. So I slowly began to wean her. She cried for hours and days for the loss and so did I. It was a sign of detachment from me also. The sadness that came shortly thereafter was worse than I ever could have imagined and that sadness soon turned to anger when I realized what was left of my body.

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I was scarred. This iconic journey I was on

had come to a screeching halt and I was now

reduced to ridicule and innuendos from the

ones I loved and trusted to preserve my

heart through this transition.

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I was scarred. This iconic journey I was on had come to a screeching halt and I was now reduced to ridicule and innuendos from the ones I loved and trusted to preserve my heart through this transition. I was receiving rude gestures and comments regarding my breast size from extended family and I was being told now from every doctor I spoke to, to get plastic surgery to enhance my frame. I was even told by a doctor I spent years with that I was now deformed as she handed me the number of a surgeon.  I wept for days trying to accept myself.

 

Do I really need to do this for my self-esteem or to fit into the proverbial new 34C mentality where beauty rests in the eyes of my breast size and body type? I was in very good shape and exercised through therapy weekly to regain my strength. I was not lazy and I ate healthy organic food. But this pressure to produce left me in this state. "What will I think of myself 10 years from now when and if the foreign matter is still in my body," I asked myself.  I had seen this done so skillfully before but for other reasons. I wasn’t deformed or utilizing it for medical reasons. I know it was a standard practice but why was I feeling so horrible about this decision?

Somehow this beautiful bond I had created with my daughter started to signify the absence of my womanhood. Am I less of a woman now that my breasts are not as large as they were when I evolved into this curvaceous beauty? "Am I no longer beautiful," I asked myself for so many months. Then one day I decided I was going to make this work. I was going to stand up to my dark thoughts and myself. I was going to accept myself. I was not going to give into any feelings of shame. “I’m a warrior,” I said proudly to myself every day. I sacrificed my body for my baby, because I love her more than life itself. The scars were reminders of that love. I was the one who rescued her when she needed me the most. I decided from this day forward I was going to love myself just the way I was.

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“ You are you, and that’s precisely what makes you beautiful. Every line, every flaw, every scar tells a story about who we are and where we have been. Without this road map we are lost in the abyss of trying to attain self- perfection. It’s an illusion, and we will never be able to achieve it.  You don't need anyone to tell you who you are. You are not only skin-deep. You can be seen inside out and free.” Poetic Couture

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" Body Shaming has become a very real thing. It affects children, teens, and women of all ages. My daughter was a victim of it as a baby for her beautiful rolls of healthy skin from being breast-fed.

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