As a happy and confident adult, I’m able to appreciate the benefits and privileges that having small breasts has given me.

I can lie down on my stomach if I feel so inclined.

I can go without a bra — in fact, I almost always do — and nobody will notice unless I’m wearing something translucent or skin tight.

I don’t have to experience any of the back pain or soreness that my more well-endowed friends complain about. Even if I go jogging braless.

Your breasts can’t attract any unwanted attention if you barely even have any in the first place.

Yet growing up, those breasts I’m now grateful for were my biggest source of insecurity.

I felt inadequate

As a child in secondary school, I hated physical education lessons. Not because of the exercise. Not because I had to lug my trainers and sports kit around with me all day. Annoying as those things were, I could put up with them.

The worst part was getting changed in front of the other girls with their beautiful, round breasts.

I was so insecure that I’d look around the changing room and examine how many other girls were flat-chested, hoping to reassure myself I wasn’t the only one.

It had the opposite effect.

My best friend at the time was even more self-conscious about her A-cups than I was. She’d talk about wanting to get plastic surgery as soon as she was old enough and constantly compare us to our other friends. I started to consider plastic surgery too. I was fourteen.

First came denial

For the longest time, I convinced myself that there was still time for my breasts to grow. No matter that my growth spurt, period and body hair had all arrived come years ago; I was just a late-bloomer. No matter that my mother was also flat-chested; I was hopeful that I’d take the genes of my grandmother.

I remember searching on Google for ways to make my breasts larger, hopeful that there was some mysterious solution and it didn’t all come down to genetics.

At one point I even considered whether I could hypnotize myself into making my breasts grow. The mind-body connection and all that.

The most promising option seemed to be to go on the pill. The whispers going around my school were that it made your breasts go larger; of course, nobody mentioned that this happened because it messed with your hormones.

I was so short-sighted and self-absorbed that I felt envious of the girls who got prescribed the pill due to suffering from period pains or acne; one of my friends went up to an E cup at the age of 13. My friend and I longed to be able to join the ranks of those who had cheated their way into more voluptuous bodies, but we were too scared to go through with it without telling our parents.

Then came acceptance

After the turbulent years of adolescence, I came to terms with my natural figure.

When I was a young teenager who’d never been kissed or had a relationship, my mind built up all these false ideas about the opposite gender and sex. I thought I was doomed to always be rejected for those who had better luck in the genetic lottery.

Becoming sexually active helped me to realize that breast size — and your body in general — just isn’t that big a deal. I’m sure plenty of men (and women) do prefer larger breasts, everything else held equal. But in life, everything else isn’t held equal.

99.9% of people don’t care enough about breast size — or any physical attribute — to use it as some kind of pre-requisite for a partner. Most people are just happy to be having sex.

I realize that I’m saying that from a place of privilege; some people have bigger problems than their breast size which may lead to them being ostracized.

I stopped masking and started highlighting

When I was younger, dressing up meant putting on a ‘super push-up bra’ — the kind that claim to make your breasts appear two cup sizes bigger.

These days, I rarely bother with a bra and wear teeny vest tops and crop tops that leave no illusions about the fact I have no tits. But I’m fine with that: I like the way I look.

I think there’ll always be a part of me that looks longingly at women who are more well-endowed than me, and maybe sometimes when I’m trying on a dress I’ll wish I had the figure to make it hang right.

But I’m no longer insecure, and I definitely won’t be considering plastic surgery.

I now realize how lucky I am that one of my primary worries as a teenager was the size of my breasts. Besides, at least I have a nice ass.