When I was 17 years old, I wanted breast implants more than anything else in the world.
I thought they would make me beautiful. I thought they would make my then-boyfriend love me. Or at least stop cheating on me. I thought those silicone-filled bubbles were all that was standing between me and happiness. Between me and actually wanting to be seen in a bikini. Between the me everyone saw and the me I felt I was supposed to be.
Eight years later, I couldn’t be more grateful that my breasts are real. They are no bigger, mind you, than they were my junior year of high school.
But they are mine.
At some point during those years that young, unsure girl grew into a woman who believed in herself. Who began defining herself outside of the things others thought she should be. How she should look. What she should do. And I began to love myself, breasts, stomach, thighs and all.
And more incredibly, when I finally began to love myself, I found someone else who actually did too.