The other day I went to a Spin class.
Pretty standard except for one thing – I forgot to put a sports bra on.
Instead I was sporting a way too sexy (and not at all supportive) leopard print bra usually reserved to making my breasts look more respectable than they actually are.
As I began my spin class (and verbally warned everyone of the faux pas) I apprehensively cringed as the instructor said we were going in to a standing climb track. Basically you stand, you spin, things jiggle, sports bras are needed. You need the right bra for the right occasion.
Yet as I got up out of the saddle and started bouncing around I came to a sudden realisation; It felt friggin awesome.
My breasts started jiggling up and down in a flamboyant display of femininity and fun.
I found myself loving the track even more for how free and exuberant I felt and a smile spread across my face as I sung out loud to Vengaboys Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom! and just allowed myself to enjoy a completely new way to experience my body moving in the moment.
As the sprint track came on I realized a new challenge awaited – leaning forward over my handlebars and just letting go as my legs go balls to the wall crazy trying to be as fast as they can for 20-45 second intervals.
I was wearing a loose fitting top and the risk of showing nip was real in my mind but it was exactly what fear of the future almost always turns out to be – False Evidence Appearing Real.
In love with my liberated breasts
Leaning forward I rode through fast tracks and just allowed myself to work out to the best of my ability and, again, I found myself in love with my liberated breasts.
In a sprint positing they were relatively cupped in but were just free enough to make rapid, slight bounces which felt almost like little attempts at being vibration. My breasts essentially turned in to a bullet vibe that I’d probably give a bad review if it were going on my clit, but up against my chest it felt like this amazing additional rush that took the workout to a completely different space.
And, yes – I did have to ‘reposition’ my breasts a few different times but that was okay and happened far less frequently than I thought.
I give my breasts a hard time a lot of the time.
Weight loss was not kind to them and they became rather unfilled, saggly flaps on my body pretty quickly in to my transition to a body with less body fat on it.
It was always my biggest fear when losing weight that I’d have loose skin and when the reality came I just had to kind of deal with it and learn how to manage my new reality.
It’s still something I battle with mentally on a near daily basis and the biggest hit psychologically has always been the flopping of my breasts.
When I was a larger lady one of the biggest (read: only) complements I would repeatedly get was on my breasts. My family would use it to bolster my confidence on waning days, random people would gawk at my G-cups, and comparisons to watermelons abounded.
As someone who struggled with low self esteem for most of my life, this outside validation of my breasts gave me something I could hold on to. Like “Hey, I might be ugly, unattractive, and pretty much a worthless lump of a human being, but I’ve got some damned awesome breasts.”
This is not the right way to think and I know it was produced from a toxic background but when you’re struggling any kind words that you can give yourself are a victory, even if it’s not necessarily coming from the right place.
When I did eventually learn to embrace self-love and body-love my breasts were still a large part of what I adored about myself and I never stopped using them as a comfort blanket of kinds, sometimes literally. I would hug my breasts, grope them, or just hold one cupped in my hand as I lie down in my bed many times, enjoying how plush and grandiose they were both physically and as a mental reassurance.
My breasts rocked. And then they shrunk and I lost something in my life as a result of that.
In my early weight loss stages this was devastating and made even worst by the fact that people would often comment on the fact that my breasts had “disappeared.”
“Where did they go?” I’d hear.
Or “Sure you’re healthier now but it looks like you’ve lost a few things” with shifty eyes down to my chest and a knowing grin.
Never mind the fact that I could deadlift the equivalent of my bodyweight, if I didn’t have breasts then apparently it was a point against me in the eyes of others and, admittedly, in my own eyes too.
The sagging reminder of my old fuller form in the way of loose skin has not helped at all. My breasts look like they have nurtured at least 3 children without the amazing accomplishment, pain, and struggles of doing that. Without a bra they are tiny fat sacks at the bottom and a whole lot of skin at the top, weighed down moderately enough that you can see my ribs at the top of my chest rather than being met with cleavage or anything resembling that.
But, fuck it, they’re mine.
Rebuilding a strong relationship with my breasts
It has taken a long time to rebuild a strong relationship with my breasts, and some days I still struggle, but I’m glad to say that I’m in a better place with them now.
My body is not perfect but it is the story of my life – it’s a journey that I carry with me everywhere and it has helped me achieve some amazing things. That includes my breasts.
Sunday I ran a marathon. Monday I did a hotel room workout which I finished off with a core blaster.
As I lay down I decided to take a moment to recontextualize the reality of my body with whatever body image was going on in my head by taking some raw, unfiltered photos, and part of that included my breasts – unrestrained by a sports bra, a leopard bra, or anything else.
The photos still make me cringe and I can see every flaw but I also love myself and love what my body and my mind can achieve, and making peace with my breasts is one of those things.
I look back on the spin session from last Thursday and I think so fondly of my breasts – how they felt, how they performed, and what they offered me on that day. They are smooth and resilient and a wonderful addition to my body. They don’t define me, and never will, but they do offer me experiences that are unique to them, and I feel fortunate for whatever lessons they bring my way.
My breasts are not perfect, nor is how I see them, but they’re a part of me and, as parts go, they’re still pretty damned fun.