I never imagined I’d get a breast augmentation.
In sixth grade, I purchased a training bra. I didn’t need one; it was like getting a hope chest, with the plan of someday filling it with something of value. I waited for my treasure to arrive.
In my teen years, a close family friend assured me that I was simply a “late bloomer.” After all, she hadn’t gotten her own full breasts until around age 18. I waited for my buds to blossom.
In my college years, I rebelled against the whole idea of big breasts–throwing aside my padded bras and donning camisoles instead, as if to say, “I’m flat. So what!” But deep down, I waited for natural hills (even molehills) to form.
When I got pregnant, I was sure this was it! My mother claimed that she grew two cup sizes post-childbirth, and she had the bras to prove it. My breasts filled with milk, nursed my children, and shrunk back down like shriveled raisins that had once known the glory of grapehood. I finally realized that I was waiting fruitlessly.
Still, I never considered breast augmentation. Plastic surgery was for the Pamela Sue Andersons and Anne Nicole Smiths of the world. I didn’t want a stripper look, a Playboy contract, or cleavage big enough to spill out of a turtleneck.
Plastic surgery was vanity on overdrive, right? Sure, it’s one thing to purchase cosmetics, skin care products, stylish clothes, or even straighten your teeth. But cutting up your body to achieve some elusive ideal perpetuated by airbrushed magazine covers and runway models seemed like succumbing to the appearance-is-everything hype.
Moreover, plastic surgery was drastic. Anytime you undergo surgery, you have to fill out that paperwork that essentially says, “Sign this as an acknowledgement that anything or anybody could kill you while you’re out.” Going “under the knife” is inherently risky. Why chance that for the sake of big knockers?
After living with a pubescent chest for almost thirty years, watching my breast disappear every time I raise my arm above my head, and putting 19 of every 20 outfits I try on back on the rack because they don’t fit my bodice, I started thinking the unthinkable. What if plastic surgery isn’t about how I appear to others or vanity? What if it’s about how I feel about myself? About feeling normal?
What would it be like to purchase a dress with darts? To shop for bras in the women’s department instead of the girls’? To have my husband use more than a couple of fingers to cup my breast? To feel that I was in the body of the woman that I am, instead of feeling trapped in the body of the 13-year-old girl I used to be? How would that change the way I look at and feel about myself?
Most importantly, though, I wondered about that verse, “And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him” ( Colossians 3:17). Can I have breast augmentation and honor God at the same time?
I know that not everyone will agree with or understand my decision. But I have decided yes, I can. The surgery date is on the calendar. I’m feeling confident and relaxed about my decision.
In my next post, I’ll explain how I made my decision–what factors I considered and the process of researching the surgery.