To look at me, you wouldn’t know. So, it’s hard to believe I’m writing this post. This is not a decision that I’ve taken lightly. It’s probably been about 25 years in the making…
My psychiatrist asked me last year “How is your self-esteem? Is there anything that you’re self-conscious about?
Immediately I knew the answer… my boobs, or should I say lack of.
I said, “I’ve always felt self-conscious about being flat-chested. I had this boyfriend years ago and he made me feel so shit about having no boobs”.
That was all we said about it. It was close to my birthday, and just a routine question, but it started me thinking about it. I realised it (my self-consciousness about my boobs) started long before I met said boyfriend. I decided that it was something I no longer wanted to carry with me into another year of my life.
My mind went back to being 13. There was a group of older girls, we all lived in the same neighbourhood. We were ‘friends’. They were a few years older than me. I remember one night, when we were hanging out, the oldest girl put a piece of cardboard up her shirt. I wasn’t sure what she was doing, but the girls were all laughing, and then she said that she was me. She’d flattened out her breasts with a sheet of cardboard to pretend that she was me. Flat-chested me. I pretended to laugh. Ouch. This hurt! ‘I’m not a woman, I’m a joke!’ my inner voice started to say. I started wearing padded bras after that.
But it didn’t start there either. I was 9 or 10 when I noticed during swimming one day that all of my girlfriends, even some girls younger than me, were ‘budding’, and ‘blossoming’ (not sure why they’re all flower analogies?), but they were all starting to grow breasts. Their bodies were changing. But mine was not. Not in that way anyway. I had not started to develop breasts at all. I felt like there was something wrong with me. Like I wasn’t turning into a woman. How come my boobs still hadn’t developed?!
Even earlier than this, about age 8, I remember playing dress-ups with my best friend. We’d put on my older sisters’ formal dresses, stuffing the bust area with tissues, socks and other bits of clothing. We couldn’t wait to be grown-up women!
Some 20 years later, after giving birth to my first son, at age 28, I had my first experience of having boobs. My tiny (AA) boobs had developed into a small B cup. They were engorged with milk, and tender to the touch, and my nipples hurt and cracked from learning how to breastfeed, but for the first time in my life, I felt like a woman. It was so exciting. I felt very grateful that my boobs, as tiny as they were, could give life and nourishment to my son. I went on to breastfeed all of my sons in this way. I had very few issues with feeding and my breasts had done exactly what they were created to do. It was the first time that I loved this part of myself… (Except for how horribly tender and sore they were at times, especially when milk ducts got blocked up and I ended up with mastitis!)
It’s been over 2 years since I finished breastfeeding my youngest son. My husband and I decided that our family was complete and we’d be having no more children. When we were newly dating, some 11 years earlier, I remember telling my husband (then boyfriend) that “If I ever get a boob job one day, it will be once I’m finished having kids”. Here I am now, at that stage in my life.
So, at the end of 2023, I started to look into cosmetic surgery. I found a cosmetic surgeon down at the Gold Coast. We were heading down on a family trip to do the theme parks in a few weeks, so I thought I’d book a consultation, just to start the conversation. I needed to get a GP referral also and I felt comfortable having this conversation with my GP, as he had been very empathetic and supportive when talking about my mental health challenges in the past.
The day was here. I felt very nervous about my appointment. I sat in the waiting room for the longest time. Another young lady sat in there with me. We didn’t talk, just exchanged an awkward smile. She was the tannest, slimmest, tallest, blondest, stereotypical Gold Coast ‘stunner’ that you can imagine. ‘Arrgh, this is a mistake’, I thought to myself, wanting so badly to walk out. Another older lady walked in, clearly in some discomfort in the chest area. She met with my surgeon. He huddled her into a consultation room. After a few moments, he ushered her back out again, his nurse offsider was told to book her in again in 2 weeks. ‘Does she have some sort of infection? She doesn’t look well, and he (the surgeon) didn’t seem to be worried at all’, I thought to myself. All my fears and doubts swirling through my mind.
It was my turn. I met with the surgeon at his office. He was exactly how I had pictured a plastic surgeon to be. Old, white, man, who was very impersonal.
For weeks before the appointment I had the lyrics to this song ‘Victoria’s Secret’ by Jax, swimming around my mind.
“I know Victoria’s secret
And, girl, you wouldn’t believe
She’s an old man who lives in Ohio
Making money off of girls like me”
Cashin’ in on body issues
Sellin’ skin and bones with big boobs
I know Victoria’s secret
She was made up by a dude (dude)”
This dude (the surgeon) was exactly what I had been worried about. He asked me a few questions about what I wanted. He didn’t take much time to listen to my responses. I knew nothing about this man, and he knew nothing about me, except for my name, age and how many kids I’d had. After a few minutes, he asked me to get undressed (top half) and lay down on the bed. He touched and prodded my tiny boobs to feel how much breast tissue there was. Not much… He asked me to stand up and gave me a bra to put on and try a few sizes of implants. I placed the clear silicone fillets that he gave me into the bra. “Whoa, these look huge! Do you have something a little more subtle?” I asked.
“You could go bigger for your height and frame”, he told me.
“I’m not really after ‘bigger’. I still would like to be able to garden, go bushwalking, muck around and wrestle with the kids, without ‘them’ getting in the way”, I rebutted.
He handed me a smaller size again. Still much larger than I’d had in mind. He would know what I had in mind if he’d taken more than a few minutes to talk to me about who I am and my reasons for wanting this surgery!
As I stood there with my fillets in, I started telling him about how my mum had had a boob job many years ago. She had been a working mum at that stage of her life (before I was born), making good money in sales. She decided to get the procedure done to ‘give her bust a hike’ and ‘boost her self-confidence’. The surgery went well, she felt great. A few years later she went for a routine mammogram and felt one of the implants burst. It dispersed silicone throughout her body, through her lymphatic system. She had to have the implants removed, and the wayward silicone scraped from the internals of her body.
I told him this… his response was “Yeah, that was the 80’s. Things have changed since then”.
“Ahh yeah, thanks. I’m going to need a bit more information than that?” I stated, puzzled. I felt very confused that I had to prompt the medical professional to provide just some basic information about what the research says about the safety of implants these days. A bit of reassurance that I’m not unnecessarily placing myself at a higher risk of cancer, just for the sake of ‘looking more like a woman’.
I didn’t get that information or reassurance from him. It was a horrible appointment and almost put me off altogether. A little while later, I spoke to my mum-in-law about it. She was able to speak with a friend who had previously worked as a medical receptionist at a cosmetic surgery clinic. I booked an appointment with this surgeon recommended, and had an appointment a few months later.
This appointment was an entirely different experience. The doctor introduced himself and asked questions about myself, and my lifestyle. He listened to my responses. He empathised when I shared my concerns about Mum’s experience. He discussed the research, the statistics and the risks. I had the information I needed to make an informed decision about undergoing surgery.
I had money put aside that Mum had left me, from when she’d passed away. She told me to save it for me, and to spend it on myself. That’s exactly what I did. I had the surgery done, and it all went well. The recovery phase is over and I am healthy and well. I have a full handful of boob! I feel beautiful, sexy and like a woman.
I’d spent 25 years not feeling right in my body, and lived self-consciously because of it. I’ve closed that chapter now.
So, that’s why I got a boob job.
If you have any questions, I’m happy to try my best at answering them, or at least I can point you in the right direction.
‘Til next week,
MumOf3WR