I wish someone told me, aged 11, that I wouldn’t be defined by my tiny tits. That they don’t make me any less of a woman, any less powerful, or less sexy.
Boobs, breasts, tiddies, nunga nunga’s, puppies, the girls, Ant & Dec, whatever you call the two blobs of tissue on your chest… they’re such an unnecessarily complex social issue. Despite just being blobs of tissue, they are hyper-sexualised. Everywhere. All the time. And, no matter what size you have, everyone’s got an opinion of them.
I have been a longstanding member of the itty bitty titty committee since, well since I was born. I seemed to inherit all of the worst body parts from my dad – his facial hair, his nose, and his tits. I didn’t choose the small tit life – I don’t think anyone does, not at first anyway, it very much chooses you. I have been making regular membership installments that come in the form of internalised self-doubt, insecurity, and anxiety for years. The selection process for the committee is a short and simple one that goes a little something like this:
- Do you look like a 4-year-old boy when you lie down?
- Are you a chicken fillet connoisseur?
- Have you been called mosquito bites or iron board?
- Or, had any of the following said to you:
– don’t worry they’ll grow, you’re just a late bloomer
– at least you have a small handful for him to grab
If you answered yes to the above then welcome to the dark side, sis. I know exactly how it feels to find the perfect dress that you don’t end up buying because it’s far too baggy around the chest area, or when a boy compliments ‘your small tits’ (JUST SAY TITS). I know you how feel, and I’m here to talk about it.
Self-consciousness and hatred for my breasts come from a wider unrealistic expectation and criticism of the female body. Everything from cellulite to our vagina lips is examined under a huge fucking lense and we can never get it right. BPAS 2019 stats say that 97% of people who underwent cosmetic surgery were women. The most popular procedure? Breast augmentation.
The perfect tits don’t exist. You know the ones, they’re perfectly rounded and symmetrical. They don’t sag, and the cleavage sits effortlessly in a low-cut dress. They’re kind of watermelon-shaped and naturally perky. The kind of tits that the Instagram algorithm loves. Except the nipples of course, because that would be too far. The reality of tits is that one will normally point east whilst the other, half a cup size bigger, looks west. Some tits are pointy, some people might only have one boob and for those that have two, they almost never look the same.
Quick side note: I recently found out that if you edit male nipples onto female breasts, Instagram allows that. I don’t get it?
Oh and whilst we’re on nipples, if they’re allowed to be shown publically, they can’t be too big or too dark. Anywhy do we never talk about hairy nipples? To be honest there’s nothing I love more than tweezing my nipple hair whilst watching a good series. I love it. Shout out to the hairy-nippled crew. I see you.
Welcome to Womanhood
Let’s start before my lil b cups blossomed, I thought the day I would grow boobs would be the day I MADE IT. I sat around for years, waiting for the day they would pop out of my chest, I would fantasise about holding them and what they would feel like. I remember playing ‘teachers’ as a kid, I’d go into my mum’s room, steal one of her bras, and put it underneath my tightest top. I’d recite the 5x table to my imaginary pupils with one hand on my imaginary tit, and I fucking loved my life.
I wish someone told me, aged 11, that I wouldn’t be defined by the size of my tits. That I would still matter, that I was still valid and important. That small tits didn’t make me any less of a woman, any less powerful, or less sexy.
I really expected having tits to be this big transformative moment in my life that would catapult me into womanhood and sexiness – growing tits would say I HAVE ARRIVED. Lo and behold, that day never came. I am 25 years old, and I’m still waiting to be blessed with breasts.
Funnily enough, my introduction to womanhood wasn’t as glamorous as I thought it would be. I remember there being two unofficial indicators for girls growing up, one was getting your first bra and the other was starting your period. Whilst the girls in my class would confidently talk about their boob-measuring experience in M&S and giggle about it in front of the boys, I pulled the short straw. I started my period but still had no tits.
Socks, tissue paper, cotton wool, you name it, if it was soft, I used to stuff my bra until I miraculously discovered Primarni’s triple air-padded push-up bras that gave the illusion of being an entire cup size bigger. And I would wear two, at the same time. Of course, then, I was branded as a slut by a boy in my class before I even became sexually active? Just because my sock-stuffed pink bra was visible through my shirt.
It did work wonders for my confidence in the short term. But that was short-lived because, behind closed doors, I remember feeling so defeated when taking off my bra(s) only to be dented with red wire lines all over my chest and to uncover my tiny little tits.
And these insecurities would bleed into my sex life when that started. There was absolutely no way in hell that I would be taking my bra off in front of a boy. Whenever his hands would creep up my top, I’d let him grope my bra(s), but as soon as he would try to go underneath that, I’d freak out and pull his hand away. It’s weird to think I was sort of distorting the world, as well as myself, about my own body. It started to feel worse for me at the end of the day when I had to take my bra off and be confronted with my body. It reached a point where I had to move on from the contrast of how I presented myself and feel more comfortable within myself.
Burn The Bra
So I started experimenting with not wearing a bra. And can I just say, this was an absolute no-go area for me. Like, I would wear a bra under absolutely every circumstance when leaving the house. It didn’t matter for how long or where I was going. But of course, after building up the courage to do this, I was then faced with another hurdle, why are my nipples showing? God forbid.
So I was faced with a new set of challenges: is it appropriate to go to work without a bra on, despite it being uncomfortable, when I don’t particularly need the support? Do I want the man in Tesco to stare at my tits as I walk through the frozen aisle? Every time I left the house without a bra on, I would have to take a moment to ask myself, am I sure I want to leave the house like this?
Mentally and internally, I had to have a mini-conversation with myself after every stare and every comment – because deep down it’s what I wanted to do. I was empowering myself. I like wearing tight tops that show the shape of my tits, in fact, I love it now. I no longer see my small boobs as something I hate about myself but something I have accepted. Giving myself permission to not wear bras when I don’t want to has been so freeing and I challenge anyone who is in a predicament with their small tits to do the same.
I reached a point where instead of looking in the mirror and believing a false illusion of big tits (thank you, chicken fillets), I would recognise my tits for what they are. This was a massive journey and a complete change of mentality, which took a lot of time and self-discipline.
And it comes from the idea that I needed the world to find me sexy and attractive in order to be sexy and attractive, and ultimately reject that. And I didn’t just start loving myself straight away. It took awareness, self-loathing, guilt, time, and intention. I asked myself instead, what does it mean for me, in my body, in my experience, and in my life to be sexy and attractive? It’s a decision we should make ourselves, and the same applies to other areas of our body where unachievable expectations have been forced.
Even after all of the work I have done trying to reconnect with my body, I would be a massive hypocrite if I didn’t admit to having dips because I do. There are still times when I have to warn my sexual partners about the insecurity I feel about my tits. Like please, don’t try and put your dick in between my tits. It’s not going to happen and will be deeply uncomfortable for all parties.
What I will say, is that I really really like my boobs on most days. And, I’m ok with that.