Lili: The Girl With The Really Big Tits

I’ve carried a persistent weight on my chest since the age of eleven. This weight sometimes feels like 1000 pounds, it never goes away, it’s painful. This weight is my breasts. I was the first person to develop breasts in the fifth grade. I remember excitedly going with my mom to buy training bras, getting different colors and patterns, I was finally a woman. This sensation of excitement and maturity would quickly dissipate.

I remember going to camp that same summer, all my bras were packed and folded, I was prepared and ready to go. As soon as I got to camp the other girls helped me unpack. Everyone was screaming and laughing and having a good time. That is, until my fellow camper, Ella Sunshine, unpacked the first bra. The look on her face was one I will never erase from my consciousness. I felt like an outsider looking in on the world, I was on the verge of becoming a woman and I had never been more confused. And even so, I felt completely alone. I remember that face. Disgust. I was the only one in my bunk to even own a bra that summer. The only one.

I grew up and my breasts did as well. As I entered middle school, rumors began to circulate about the reality of my bra size. They were fake, I was wearing a push up bra. I was a slut. All this unwanted attention only added to this weight on my chest. I would look around in class, constantly comparing myself to the prepubescent middle schoolers around me. I was overwhelmed with confusion. My whole life I had viewed breasts as a sign of beauty, a sign of sexiness, why was I facing so much ridicule from others? And why was I ridiculing myself so much?

I grew up, my breasts grew more, and the boys in my class grew with the rest of us. Everyday I experienced stares, like these sacks of flesh on my chest were only there to be viewed by everyone, not as a sign of womanhood. I carried these breasts, they’re mine, but at the same time, I felt like they were a separate entity from my being. I was Lili, “the girl with the really big tits”. I wasn’t intelligent, or funny, or kind in the eyes of the boys surrounding me. I was the girl with the really big tits.

Everyday picking an outfit is a nuisance. I worry about how others might perceive me for wearing a tight shirt. Every summer, I can never find a bikini that fits me properly or will give me enough support. Every time I need new bras, I have to get them specially fitted, and pay twice the cost of what the average girl would pay. Every time I walk down the street or take the subway in anything even slightly form fitting, I can expect at least one cat call. Every time I post a photo of myself on social media where my cleavage is showing, I can always expect more likes. Everytime I run, I’m in pain. Everytime I see a strapless top in a store, I think “I wish.” Everytime I look in the mirror, I ponder surgery that will reduce the size of my breasts.

Society portrays big breasts as a blessing, a characteristic that you’d be foolish to not want as your own. To me, the breasts I carry are a daily source of annoyance. I’ve always been the type of person who loves to be the center of attention and stand out in a crowd. I love my body and the majority of the time, I walk with a sense of confidence in who I am and what I look like, but sometimes I tend to do so with my arms crossed in front of me.

My breasts are big, so big that when I tell people my bra size I can expect a “I didn’t even know that size existed.” But my personality is even bigger. There is no ideal breast size, There is no ideal pants size, there is no such thing as an “ideal” when it comes to the female anatomy.

Over the years I’ve learned that I can dress how I please, I can cover up when I please, and I can most definitely shut down a comment of ignorance from a hormonal teenage boy. I can be the best version of myself despite the constant weight of the breasts I carry. Whoever I want to be, I can be. Wherever I want to go in life, I can go.

I just may need an extra support bra.