Surgery

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When my mother was pregnant with me, she had a few wishes. The usual ones, of course—a healthy and happy baby. But she also asked for a bit more: intelligence and grace. Then, she got more specific. She hoped her firstborn daughter would have the beauty of a model, an hourglass figure, and a big pair of breasts. It was an unusual request for an unborn child, but maybe she believed that if I had those things, life would be easier for me. Some of her wishes came true—her daughter was born healthy, relatively intelligent, and did end up becoming a model.

But, she also developed an abnormally huge pair of tits that were the bane of her existence from the moment she hit puberty. 

My breasts started growing at a very young age, and I can hardly remember a time when they weren’t there. I think I was around 10 or 11 when I first started receiving comments from people around me. It wasn’t like I had double D’s right away, but they were definitely noticeable. From the start, these comments made me uncomfortable. At that age, all you want is to blend in, to be like everyone else, and hearing those remarks always made me feel different. Looking back as an adult, I realise just how many comments I received about my body and breast size as a child. I probably would have been fine if no one pointed out how much faster I had developed compared to my peers, but for some reason, they always felt the need to remind me. To this day, I still don’t understand why.

The comments did not end there, they got worse as a tween. The boys have become horny monsters and there I was, me and big boobies, the perfect victim to be harassed with inappropriate comments. I was luckily already one to not be afraid to stand up to boys, so every time they teased me at PE, telling me that when I ran “the milk in my boobs would turn to yogurt”, I’d snatch them by the hair, pull them to my feet and make them apologise. This didn’t stop them to make the same comment over and over again and made me wonder that maybe they liked getting their hair pulled and getting my attention no matter where it came from. My girlfriends constantly told me how lucky I was to have big boobs and wished they had cleavage too, that I was “hotter” because of it. I was quickly sexualised from that point on, I was always told that I was “sexy”, “hot” and “seductive”, which once again is a little crazy to say to an underaged girl. Older men always told me that I was going to be man-eater later on in life and that “the boys will go crazy” for me. I’ve caught male teachers staring down as they explained a math problem to me. The overwhelming attention I was getting around my body was starting to get to me and really closed me off. At around 13 years old, I went through a “boy” phase where I dressed as a boy and wore baggy clothes, doing my best to conceal this body of mine. I had spent a whole summer in the south of France with my family without swimming. My mother asked me why I wasn’t swimming, I told her because I didn’t feel like being in a bathing suit in front of everybody. I was caught off guard by her reaction, when she angrily told me that I was wasting my life being so concerned about what people thought of me. She told me to look around me and look at all the people at the beach and all the different body types there were and how no one gave a fuck. That convinced me to go swimming, but just once.  

My biggest fear was to lose my identity because of my boobs, I feared that people would refer to me as “the one with the big boobs”. This obviously happened anyway, as much as I tried to hide my chest. As my friends started to get involved with boys and having their first kiss or getting fingered for the first time, I noticed how boys would talk so much afterwards, revealing each other’s businesses sometimes even humiliating the girls. This terrified me. I pushed back my first kiss for so long, using my braces as an excuse because I feared the noise it would make when someone actually got the chance to “experience me”. Who was going to be able to hook up with the girl with the big boobs? 

I was never seen around a boy at parties, there were no sighting of me kissing anyone and no one could claim they had stories about me because I simply did not speak to anyone. It went on for so long that people started creating rumours and saying that I was a lesbian. I still laugh at the thought of it, because like, what the actual fuck? 

By the time I was 15, I had started to really model and my first few clients were mainly bikini and lingerie brands. Why was this allowed, you ask? I do not know. Oddly enough modelling has created so many insecurities but also helped me open up. I also started to desire male attention more and realised that the ones getting the most attention were the ones that were considered “hot”, wearing cut off Topshop denim shorts, skimpy mini dresses and weren’t afraid to roll their school skirts up. So I tried to do the same, with some reluctance. I started to do what I feared other’s would do to me: I sexualised myself. That’s when I realised: these tits have power. Having boobs as a teenager had its perks, it made me looked curvier so it made me look grown. Looking grown meant that it I was rarely ever ID’d and I was able to get into any club. Buying drinks or cigarettes was a no brainer and it was easier to get attention from the older guys. I came to the silly conclusion that as long as I had boobs, I would be considered hot, meaning I would always be desired. If I ever felt insecure about something else, I’d just say that my boobs made up for it. They had the power to make me feel like I would perpetually be desired no matter what.

However, as I got older they didn’t stop growing, I grew a cup almost every 2 years and it started to be quite difficult to find clothes that would fit me properly. I couldn’t wear the same bikini styles as my petite friends. I had 3 bikini tops that I would be able to wear, when everyone else able to change it up everyday of the week. A lot of the clothes looked sexier on me, I would sometimes be dress coded in school for wearing the same exact outfit as a girl with an A cup. It started to take a toll on my back in my late teens and early twenties. I would sometimes cry for hours in bed from the pain that prevented me from sleeping causing severe exhaustion. Exercising was difficult, like running for instance was a pain, leading me to gain weight. Everything required a bra. Moving to Paris was exciting to me because I thought I could finally experiment with my personal style but I quickly realised that many of the things I wanted to wear just never sat right. On top of all of that, let’s also not forget the laws of gravity which is: “if you think your tits will stay perky forever as a size E cup, bitch you are tripping.” Boy did my boobs start to sag, they were heavy and if I didn’t have a bra on and it was hot out, my under boobs would sweat so much, leaving me with the most horrid slushy sensation. I simply couldn’t take it anymore. 

Broke and desperate, I began exploring my options. I discovered that in France, breast reductions for hypertrophy are covered by the public health system. I was quite overwhelmed because I didn’t know where to start, did I have to contact my GP first? Did they have to give me the green light to get a free breast reduction? Or should look for the surgeon and go to them right away? How do I know if it’s the right surgeon? Do I have to also prove that it has affected me psychologically to be eligible? 

Usually, I would have given up but the pain of living with the weight of actual two watermelons on my chest was honestly too much to bare. 

I decided to just find the right surgeon first. I remembered that the designer for the brand I interned for just had had a breast lift and was super happy with the result and went to a public hospital to get the procedure done. I asked for the name of the surgeon and booked an appointment right away. 

It was at the Tenon Hospital in 20th arrondissement, a 25 minute walk from my place. The beautiful Père Lachaise cemetery was on the way which is always a delight to walk through, especially in the morning when the Komorebi creates the most beautiful pattern of light and shadow. As I weaved my way between the gothic tombstones and old trees, I was confronted with the thought of death and its meaning—specifically, what the death of my big tits would signify.

I saw the breast reduction as my liberation. It would free me from years of physical pain and the mental strain it caused. No longer would I feel excessively vulgar or trapped in a hyper-sexualised image. It would strip away those labels and let me present myself as I’ve always wanted. I dreamed of moving freely, unburdened, no longer ‘the girl with huge boobs.’ This surgery felt like a rebirth—a chance for a fresh start and a new life. But, what if no one desired me anymore, what if without this sexy image I am worth less? Would I still get modelling jobs to support myself? Will my body look odd and disproportionate? What if the scars look crazy and I’ll never feel comfortable naked in front of anybody again? 

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I was greeted by a rude receptionist (because, of course, I’m in France), and sat waiting for what felt like an eternity. When they finally called my name, I met my surgeon for the first time. He asked me the basic questions, including what I did for a living. He paused for a moment, looked at me with a puzzled expression, and then asked, “So, you’re a model?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind? Aren’t you heavier than usual?”

I didn’t know how to respond. I suddenly felt like I was back in my modelling agency, where my agents always told me I should lose weight. Ignoring his question, I explained what I wanted: smaller breasts, specifically a C cup.

“Are you sure you want to go that small?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied.

“Well, you’d lose all of your silhouette. Is that something you’re okay with?”

“Yes, as long as it looks good.”

“You’d look great with just a lift. They’ve sagged quite a bit, but you’d look amazing with a nice D.”

I told him I was experiencing back pain and would prefer to go as small as I could.

“I’d suggest you lose some weight first. Maybe five kilos.”

The words hit me hard. It felt like a trigger being pulled. I was already struggling with my weight, and now I was being told, again, that I wasn’t good enough. It transported me straight back to my childhood—to my stepdad’s voice telling me I needed to lose weight, even as a young teenager.

My mom always encouraged me to love myself, but my stepdad’s perfectionism lingered longer. He was the kind of man who needed everything in his life to be pristine, including his wife and kids. That constant pressure left me with a binge eating habit and body dysmorphia, struggles I carry to this day.

The weirdest part? The surgeon looked a lot like my stepdad. Sitting in that room, it felt like I was with him—the same critical eyes, the same fixation on perfection. And the most fucked-up part of all? I knew he was the one I wanted to do my surgery. Because, like my stepdad, he’d make sure I looked as perfect as possible.

I was quoted 4,500 euros for the procedure because I failed to mention that I wanted to remove more than 300 grams, which would have made the surgery free. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything—maybe our conversation had made me so anxious that I just said “okay” and convinced myself I’d find a way to pay for it.

The surgery was scheduled for five months later. But a month before the procedure, I quickly realised I couldn’t afford it and had to cancel.

Still, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up on the surgery, and I didn’t give up on the fact that I wanted this specific surgeon. Eight months later, I went back—this time, less intimidated—and clearly demanded the procedure I wanted, including removing more than 300 grams. He agreed but informed me that because I was now taking the public route, I’d have to be placed on a waitlist. That meant another ten months of waiting.

During those ten months, I was consumed with anxiety. I had never had surgery before, and the fear of waking up in the middle of it or experiencing anesthesia awareness—feeling everything while being paralyzed—haunted me. It became an obsession, something I cried over repeatedly. There were moments I almost backed out, terrified I would be one of the 0.1%. But I didn’t. And then, the day finally came. My sweet mum, sensing my anxiety, flew in to be by my side. Knowing her, she had to be there in case anything happened to her firstborn. “You should’ve been careful what you wished for,” I joked, “because here I am, chopping off my boobs.”

The surgery was early, and we had to be there at 7 am. The whole preparation felt like something out of a dystopian sci-fi movie. All the patients for that morning’s surgeries were gathered together, asked to strip down, wear hospital gowns, and hand over all their personal belongings. We sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity before being led down freezing, dimly lit corridors to a waiting room. They tried to make it calming, with an odd water feature and colourful LED lights, but the observation windows made it feel more like some kind of strange experiment. The person ahead of me looked unwell, clearly fighting for their life. Beside me, a woman who had survived cancer before was awaiting a breast biopsy. She couldn’t stop talking to me about God, I think she wanted to make sure she was in His good graces, just in case. I was exhausted, wishing for a moment of rest, but it felt important to listen, to comfort her. I told her I would find Him, wanting her to feel like she had brought someone closer to God before her surgery.

Finally, it was my turn. I was led into a room with the surgeon and a group of medical students, where they took pictures of my breasts and drew surgical markings with a sharpie. I stood there, cold and afraid, feeling awkward in my vulnerability. Then I was taken to the operating room. Along the way, I kept my head down, afraid to see something that might spook me out of the surgery.

I was told to lie down on the operating table. The anaesthesiologist tried to make small talk, but all I could do was nod my head yes or no. It was go time. They asked me to envision my happy place, and my mind drifted to a memory of my mum and I on the beach—the one we spent so much of my early childhood on, during sunset. I was five again, playing in the sand as she watched me. I could feel the afternoon breeze on my skin, my hair blowing into my face, and the gentle sound of waves washing up on the shore.

Slowly, everything faded to black.

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A little more about the surgery they performed on me for those who are curious: 

The surgeon makes incisions on the breasts: around the areola (the darker area around the nipple), a vertical line from the areola to the breast crease (lollipop shape) and a horizontal line under the breast crease (anchor shape). Then they remove excess tissue, fat and skin to reduce the size and weight of the breasts. The nipples and areola are moved to a higher and more natural position and resized. They stitched me up and wrapped me tight. 

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I woke up an hour after the surgery in the recovery room and I guess was still high from the anaesthesia because I was already cracking jokes with the nurses. The first thing I did obviously was lift the covers to see my new and improved tits. I fucking did it, war is over. 

I was wheeled into my room by a middle-aged man who, despite the fact I looked like I’d been through hell and back, still tried to flirt with me. My room was spacious, clean, and had a lovely view. I had no idea where my phone was, but the nurse told me that both my mom and my best friend were on their way up. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the wall, I heard a soft knock on the door. It was my Ruby, holding a beautiful bouquet. Seeing her face and that bright smile brought me so much comfort. She’s always been the first to show up for me, without fail. Then, after getting lost for nearly an hour, my mother joined us, bringing a plant and some food. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Unfortunately, the next day, I had to go back into surgery due to internal bleeding. It’s a rare occurrence, the doctors assured me, but it was nothing to be too worried about. Of course, I was still panicking, but I made it through and was relieved that it was the only complication I had post-surgery. I stayed in the hospital for two days before being sent home to rest. For the next 10 days, I stayed in bed while a nurse came in daily to clean my stitches. The pain wasn’t too bad after the first few days, though I cried like a child to my mom as she comforted me the best she could. After that, it was mostly discomfort, as I had to hold myself up in strange positions, which caused a lot of back pain. So, no, I didn’t experience the instant relief in my back that many breast reduction patients describe. All I wanted to do was go outside and meet my friends. But it was also a time for reflection, to think about what I wanted to do when I was finally ready to step back into the world—several kilos lighter, without chronic back pain. Finally, the day came when I found the strength to go outside. The first thing I did? Treated myself to a blow-dry. It was my small victory, a moment of joy after all the waiting and healing.

I will never forget the moment they removed my stitches and I finally tried on my clothes—all the pieces I had tucked away over the years, waiting for this day. Tears filled my eyes as I stood there in disbelief, seeing the body I had always imagined, the body that felt like me. In that instant, every doubt and worry disappeared, replaced by the certainty that this was the best decision I had ever made. I admired my reflection, overcome with joy and excitement for the life I was about to embrace. 

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Bali, December 2024