Dom The Blogger
I used to love my tits. Everything about them. As a preteen and a late bloomer, I was the girl who would stuff socks similar in size in my training bra to imagine what it would be like to have actual breast. They were my entry into womanhood. They were adored by anyone who I was intimate with. I can even remember the first compliment they ever received. On a day that I needed a confidence booster, I could wear a low cut top and feel on top of the world.
When I became a mother, they fed my children and gave them the nutrients that they needed. After they served their purpose for them, they went right back to being my best friends.
I knew that life would eventually take its toll on my breasts… but I did not expect to part ways with my beloved boobs at 26 years of age due to a diagnosis that was so unexpected, so untimely and so completely unfair.
Words cannot describe the level of hate that was in my heart because of what happened to me. During the recovery process from my mastectomy and beyond, I used to spend days hiding from my (now ex) boyfriend. I went from my shirt being the first thing I took off, to keeping it on during intimate moments. When the time came to get in the shower, I would let the steam cover the mirrors because I didn’t want to see my reflection with these battered, botched breasts
I was in the lowest point I had ever been, and it was reflecting in every aspect of my life.
Something had to change.