I’m not angry with my breasts. Quite the contrary; they have given me such phenomenal gifts that I will never be able to put in words and it breaks my heart that this is their fate. Tears well up when I think of them heading off in a bio-hazard bag for dissection. Unfortunately I only had a short 18 years with my natural breasts, but they did me good.

I was a late bloomer. I vividly remember being teased in the front the orange lockers in the middle school gym; being taunted for my flat chest. It didn’t help that I also had braces, glasses and a bowl cut (People magazine had said short hair was in that summer, and I was ahead of my time). Then the summer before eighth grade the gods heard my prayers and blessed me with double D melons. What a cruel trick to be played. The next year I went from being teased by the girls for being too flat to being hated by them for being too large. But the boys began to remember my name ;)

I was a swimmer growing up. It was almost all I did and it didn’t help that I was a breaststroker. Many a joke was had at the expense of myself and my breasts. I felt awkward with them, didn’t know how to handle their power. So instead I hid them every chance I could get and felt ashamed of their grotesque display of womanhood that I so obviously wasn’t ready to live up to.

It took years for me to finally embrace them; to learn that I wasn’t a whore if I wore a tank top or a dress that was fitted. I learned to get a rush from the power they elicited. My early twenties were spent cashing in on all the opportunities they afforded that I was too timid to embrace in my teens. They helped me land more jobs than I’d care to admit.

However, it wasn’t until I was 24 that I really understood the purpose of my breasts or my body. That was the year my beautiful daughter decided to enter this world. After she was born I remember the shock and horror of my ungodly large breasts. They felt as though they had plans to take over the world, but it was the moment that my daughter first latched on and begin to nurse that it all made sense. It was in that moment that I knew what it was to be a woman and what an honor had been bestowed upon me. To feel the nurturing life and love flow through my breasts to the perfect child nestled in my arms was the greatest gift I could ever be given. Many an early morning I would sit and nurse her while watching the sun rise over our beautiful town and I felt a peace that has never been replaced. Watching her beautiful cheeks pump in and out with each suckle and her little thighs grow with every passing day; that was the purpose of my body. That was the purpose of my breasts.

After Dylan’s birth I let up on my body. I never called it fat again or hated the way a curve rolled. It had given life and it deserved the respect and honor of a goddess.

My son was born three years later and was nursing within minutes of his peaceful birth. The poor little one had an issue with reflux and would spit up at least half of what he ate, but my body just adapted and created twice as much milk. Despite the piles of dirty laundry he grew into a perfect, chubby little Buddha.

I’ve often found myself pausing after a shower to study by body and reflect on the change in my breasts. I’ve even wondered if I should have them lifted, perked up, filled up, and then I smile and laugh. No, they are perfect just as they are. They earned every inch of sag and sit just where they should. I think they are beautiful, majestic … perfection.

It is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to my dear friends. I can’t begin to thank them for all that they have done for me. I will miss their delicate drop and womanly nipples. I will miss the feeling of a caress. I will miss the gift of giving life to a child. I will miss them.

No, I am not angry with my breasts. I love them and send them off with all the gratitude my heart can possess.