How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Boobs

I don’t remember exactly when my boobs came in.

If I reflect back on my life, in that reflection are boobs.

As I reflect, I acknowledge that I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my body. Complicated by my inability to control it, no matter how much I wish I could. Complicated by the assumptions placed on me by others and complicated by the limitations that I put on myself.

The best way to articulate the complex relationship my body and I have, is to take a trip through some of the big stages in my life: my childhood and adolescence, my twenties and my thirties, to see how my relationship with my body affected my relationship with me.

“I have chosen to no longer be apologetic for my femininity. And I want to be respected in all my femaleness. Because I deserve to be.”

- Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We Should All Be Feminists

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Childhood and adolescence

I was always a precocious kid.

I talked early, I walked early, I read early, I was always first in my class.

My ability to do things before others was a huge sense of pride and motivation for me.

Unfortunately with early internal development came some surprise early external development, and by the time I was 9 years old I was a full-blown B-cup.

For those reading this who may have been late bloomers, or are small chested, you may find yourself flashing back to your elementary and junior high school days, thinking of how cool the girls with big boobs were. Let me assure you, there is nothing cool about it. Imagine for a moment that you are still playing with your Barbie dolls but also going adult bra shopping with your mom. No child should have to be subjected to underwire before their time.

It was even more difficult for me because I had constructed my identity around being the smart girl, the hardworking girl, the girl who wanted to beat the boys, and almost overnight I went from being that girl to being the girl with the big tits who also happened to be smart.

As I hit my tweens my breasts taught me another hard lesson. Big boobs may attract big boys and sometimes grown men can be inappropriate and creepy as hell. I remember walking to my grandmother’s house after school in the seventh grade, and a man asking me if he could take me out. I informed no thanks, I’m 12, and his response was something along the lines of, “Well dem titties don’t look 12.”

I walked away and remember being so angry and so embarrassed. What my kid brain could not articulate at the time was the feeling that my body had betrayed me, that sexuality wasn’t something that I was able to discover at my own pace. That choice was taken away from me and now I had to deal with unwanted attention from boys and men, when attention from boys and men was the last thing on my mind.

And so I began to cover up as much as I could.

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My 20’s

Let me just say that in college big boobs were le shit.

Fake ID? “No problem, let me distract you with my boobs.” Random cute dude at the dorm party that I’m trying to holler at? “Oh hello, let me introduce you to the girls.”

For those protected four years, I was finally reaping the benefit of these now D-cups that I’d been dragging along. But the fun and games came to a screeching halt when I hit the professional world.

Grown up, serious, professional women do not have breasts — or at least that’s what we have been socialized to believe. In your face femininity should be suppressed. Cleavage is a liability and curves make you incompetent. Research has shown that in professional setting, women who express cues of overt sexuality draw negative judgment from other women while men judge her as less capable.

Twenty something year-old Kim spent a lot of time struggling with button down shirts that gaped, wearing blazers when it was too damn warm and the tragedy of crew necks (busty girls know that the v-neck is the move to avoid the dreaded uni-boob).

In addition to the perceptions my breasts generated from a professional standpoint, I became more and more aware of the socio-political baggage that came with my body as a black woman. I’ll let the following quote from Amandla Stenberg explain it:

“While white women are praised for altering their bodies, plumping their lips and tanning their skin, black women are shamed although the same features exist on them naturally…Deeply ingrained into culture is the notion that black female bodies, at the intersect of oppression, are less than human and therefore unattractive. They are symbols of pain, trauma and degradation. Often when they are sexualized it’s from a place of racial fetishism.”

Even at 16, she is aware of the legacy of Jezebel stereotype and The Hottentot Venus Sara Baartman. This continued fascination and repulsion that American culture has with black female bodies, from Miley Cyrus’ appropriation to the degradation of Serena Williams, underlies the fact that the politics of black bodies matter — a lot.

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My 30’s

So now I’m in my early thirties and things have changed.

I’ve fought through a lot of personal upheaval — a divorce, getting laid off, and wondering how I was going to pay my rent and keep the lights on.

In retrospect, I realize that this was my trial by fire. I was forced to ask myself the tough questions about what it is I really want. I stopped doing the things I thought I should be doing, and instead started doing what I wanted to be doing. I spent time thinking more about me and my identity and part of that identity is my body. And what I learned as I thought about my body is this — I am falling in love with it.

It’s not perfect, and like lots of women I feel like could stand to lose 20lbs, but it’s mine. And it’s powerful.

I’m less worried about the attention of boys and men that my boobs may inspire. I recognize the level of power I have in my own sexuality and, quite frankly, most of these men are now too scared to talk to me.

I am less worried about assumptions of my intelligence and competence based on my body. I’ve learned that for those small-minded enough to make those assumptions, diversion is one of the best strategies. If I never let them see me coming, the look on their faces when I hit them with my brilliance is even that more satisfying.

I still worry about the racial politics, because it’s important. It is something much bigger than me, and is something that I fight against every day. But remembering to love myself and celebrate my #BlackGirlMagic keeps me grounded.

So as I pivot from reflection to projection, the outlook is brighter. I’m sure there will be new challenges that my body will present,including childbirth and old age, but as rather than trying to hide, I’m embracing it and approaching the world head up and tits out.