AN OPEN LETTER TO MY BOOBS

Today, as I was disrobing in preparation for an indulgent, mid-afternoon, long, steamy shower (Oh hi, heaven? Is that you?), I found myself face to face with my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror and I had to laugh.

A little background: I have been pregnant or nursing (CONSISTENTLY) since August of 2013. If you’re wondering, “how in the f—?” Well it simply means that I got pregnant in 2013, nursed baby #1 for 19 months, (the latter 3 of which I was pregnant with baby #2) and up until about 2 weeks ago, I was still breastfeeding my littlest (the hormonal aspect of which is a whole other blog post. For real, though. It’s 50 Shades of Crazy up in here).

So anyway; it’s safe to say that my body has basically been enduring a master beating for the past 4 years.

And that’s where the laughter came in.

When I looked at myself in the mirror – I saw all the things about my body that I love: My year-round-tan, my long, lean, “yoga muscles” that despite my temporary abandonment of the practice have remembered how to appear as if they have their shit together, my beautiful little c-section scar that is literally the only injury I’ve ever suffered that was serious enough to require stitches and as such, acts as physical proof of my badassery.

But then I saw them – chillin’ just south of my hollowed out collarbones (two of my most prized possessions) are two boobs who have worked their asses off over the past few years to MAKE FOOD FROM FUCKING SCRATCH for TWO kids.

My boobs… are all of us. They’ve been stretched to the max. They’ve been bitten. They’ve known pain (mastitis is no joke).  They’ve been a source of comfort, a pacifier, and even an accessory on a night out on the town. And now they just look like they need a goddamn break.

Those poor girls.

And because I know what it’s like to be as tired and over worked as they’ve been for the past four years, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to give them some grace.

I’m not going to be hard on them.

I’m going to giggle at the fact that they look like the tongue-out-winky-face-emoji right now (a perfect match for my sad-face-emoji belly button). I’m going to smile at the memory of what they looked like the day my milk came in – the day I decided that implants would never be my thing

My itty-bitty-titties have resurfaced, but they’re going to need a little time to get back to life… Just like we all do.

So now I’m going to sit back and let them do their thing. I’m not going to stuff them into padded bras. I’m not going to put my arms in the air and reminisce about what they looked like 5 years ago.

I’m going to send them a little love, tell them that eventually we’ll get to a place where we feel like ourselves again, and then I’m going to douse them in coconut oil because, hey man, it can’t hurt.

Fly free, little boobies. You’re still cool.

xx N.

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Cover Photo via @freethenipple Instagram.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. I’ve gained a new appreciation for my body since having a baby.
    As a woman, I always appreciated that we carry and deliver life into the world. But then there’s the recovery (of which I had no understanding). We recover from being stuffed and stretched to max — and then stretched an inch or two more. Then we FEED FROM OUR BODIES our amazing little creations.
    And we can do it over, and over, and over.
    It’s beautiful and astounding and inspiring.
    And you’re right: Mastitis is the devil.

    Like

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