How I Learned to Love My Breasts Even Though One Is A Horcrux For Voldemort
Everyone has something they feel self conscious about. Maybe it’s cellulite on the thighs or love handles that won’t go away with exercise. For me, it has always been that my left breast was a Horcrux for Lord Voldemort.
Growing up, I used to pour over the pages of Seventeen Magazine and US Weekly trying out every tip and trick that celebrities cited for their perfect bodies. But no matter how many times I did a lemon and cayenne pepper cleanse or squatted until I could barely feel my legs, he was still there telling me to find The Boy.
I spent so much of my youth staring in the mirror, pinching and squeezing at He Who Must Not Be Named, imagining how much better my life would be if I just had two non-sentient breasts. I would cry endless tears into my pillow thinking that no guy would ever want to be with me after I got naked and the Dark Lord started talking about his plans for Harry Potter. Instead of being excited about first dates, I would have panic attacks thinking about what would happen if we ever became intimate.
Then one day, I was telling a friend how much I wished I could change my situation when she asked “How many hours a day are you miserable about this? What if you spent that time being comfortable in the body you were cursed with instead of…
