I Chose a Breast Reduction Because My Back (and Spirit) Deserved Peace

Part 1 of My Boob Liberation Series

Whew. Where do I even BEGIN?

Let’s start with this:
I didn’t wake up one day thinking, “Hmm, you know what sounds like fun? Getting a couple pounds sliced off my chest.”
But here we are.

This is the story of why I finally chose to get a breast reduction and trust me, it’s not just about clothes. It’s about freedom, sweat, sanity, and reclaiming my body.

The Sexualization Started Before I Even Knew What “Sexualization” Meant

I didn’t even have a locker in middle school yet, but grown ass adults already had commentary about my chest. I’m talking teachers, neighbors, my mama’s friends “She’s filling out!” “She’s developing early!”
Ma’am. I’m TWELVE. Chill.

By the time I hit high school, I wasn’t even being seen as a person anymore just a walking torso with a personality behind it. People weren’t listening to what I said; they were just staring at the two front row seats to the boob show.

I was tired of being ogled, whispered about, stared at like a damn display case in the mall.
Like… I didn’t ask for this body to come with unsolicited attention and 24/7 boob commentary.

I Couldn’t Run Without Looking Like I Was in a Telenovela Fight Scene

Let’s talk movement or lack thereof.

Running? EMBARRASSING.
Working out? CHAOTIC.
Jumping jacks? Girl, be serious.

My boobs had their own motion, rhythm, and gravitational pull. I needed two bras, a prayer, and an emotional support therapist just to make it through Zumba.

And don’t get me started on cardio days at the gym I looked like I was being chased by invisible spirits while my boobs tried to escape the building.

The Underboob Sweat? A Crime Against Humanity.

You ever had to pat your underboob with a paper towel in a public bathroom like you’re dabbing a roast chicken?
Yeah, I’ve lived that life.

Summer? Hell.
Winter? Still sweaty.
Spring? Don’t let the weather fool you the sweat glands never clocked out.

I was out here layering powders, liners, and deodorants under my boobs like I was doing a skincare routine for a body part that was holding me hostage.

Cute Tops? Never Heard of Her.

Every spring/summer fashion drop was a personal attack. Crop tops? Bralettes? Spaghetti straps? BABYDOLL TOPS?!
Yeah, I could technically wear them. But did they fit? NO. Did I look like I was trying to smuggle two watermelons into Coachella? YES.

I was constantly stuck between “What’s cute and trendy” vs. “What’s structurally engineered to carry this upper body load.”
Like, I wanted to look soft and flirty, not like I was doing construction work for Victoria’s Secret.

People Didn’t Take Me Seriously In Jobs, Relationships, or Life in General

Having big boobs was like being the punchline in a joke I didn’t sign up for. People assumed I was ditzy, overly sexual, or trying to “show off” when I literally just had a torso and a fitted tee on.

I’d walk into interviews and feel like my resume wasn’t even being read just my bra size was being measured by the room.
I’d try to have serious conversations and get “joking” boob comments in return.

Even in relationships, I had to constantly deal with men dating me for the wrong reasons. It wasn’t me they were obsessed with it was the idea of dating boobs attached to a person.

Sir, I have thoughts. Dreams. A favorite color. Interests. I’m not just a set of double D’s with a pulse.

Losing Weight Was a Whole Saga

You wanna know how unfair it is to be busty while trying to get fit?

I’d lose 10 pounds, and none of it would leave my chest. Like, hello?! Can y’all chip in?! My arms and legs were shrinking, but my boobs were holding on like they were trying to win a reality TV show.

And let’s be honest working out with big boobs is already hard. The back pain? The neck pain? The way every sports bra felt like a straitjacket from hell? No ma’am.

I Wanted to Act, Model, and Exist Without Looking Like a Blow-Up Doll

You know what’s wild? I couldn’t even wear a simple bodycon dress without people assuming I was trying to “be sexy.”

I could’ve been styled head to toe in neutral basics and STILL looked like I was serving adult film teaser realness all because my body wasn’t matching the vibe of my dreams.

I didn’t want to be sexualized for existing. I wanted to walk in a casting and not have someone raise their eyebrow like, “Hmm… you’re more of a video vixen type.”

No shade to vixens but that’s not what I was going for. I wanted my face, my energy, my artistry to speak louder than my cup size.

The Decision: A Pandemic, A Glass of Wine, and a Moment of Boob Clarity

Honestly, I had been thinking about a breast reduction for years. But you know what really did it?

A random Tuesday night in lockdown, halfway through a bottle of rosé, staring in the mirror, sweating under my boobs like usual, when I said:
“I’m DONE. I’m getting these bad boys off me.”

I opened my laptop, typed in “Top Breast Reduction Surgeons Near Me” and just like that, the journey began.

Part 2 of this blog series is gonna spill all the tea on how I picked my surgeon, consultations, recovery, and everything in between.
But for now, just know that making this decision was the best thing I’ve ever done for myself, my back, my wardrobe, and my soul.

Were the boobs occasionally useful? Sure. They got me some free drinks, made for a great distraction during awkward moments, and doubled as a shelf when I lost the remote.

But in the grand scheme of things? Not worth the sweat, pain, stigma, or emotional labor.

I didn’t reduce my boobs because I hated my body. I reduced them because I loved myself enough to stop suffering in silence.
Sometimes self love is bubble baths and skincare and sometimes it’s surgical consults and letting go of things you never asked to carry.