My Cleavage Is a Fuck You

They mocked my body, starved my worth, and measured my womanhood in inches. I grew anyway and now every curve screams survivor

If you see me in public and notice my cleavage, I hope you admire it, not in a creepy way, but in a “holy shit, she made it” kind of way.

This isn’t a thirst trap. It’s a trauma recovery arc with boobs.

See, I was flat-chested and flat-assed for most of my life. Which is fine, body diversity is beautiful! But my family didn’t get that memo.

“No man will want you,” they told me.

“You have the body of a boy,” they laughed.

Meanwhile, shopping trips with my mom, sister, and cousins felt like a live taping of Mean Girls: Family Edition. They bounced around in bras that actually did something while I pretended my Double A cup was “just more comfortable.”

I wore size 00 skirts that needed belts, suspenders, and probably divine intervention to stay up. My XS shirts hung like I borrowed them from a scarecrow. I was called a stick. Told I didn’t have a “baby-making body.” My period was so late, even it didn’t want to show up.

Spoiler: I did marry. I did have five babies. I even survived. But those old voices stuck around, whispering that my body wasn’t woman enough.

Meanwhile, people would say “I wish I were as skinny as you” and I’d laugh because crying in public is frowned upon. If only they knew how hard I tried to gain weight. I ate like a teenage boy at an all-you-can-eat buffet and still stayed shaped like a beanpole.

And then… I hit 33.

I went on a European trip with Rod Maldaner, came back, and suddenly my body was like “oh, we’re safe now? Cool, let’s GROW.”

Suddenly I had thighs! Rolls! Cheeks! A booty that claps back! I went from XS to Medium, pant size 3 to 8 and for the first time in my life, brace yourselves…..

I can HOLD MY BOOBS!! Not metaphorically. Physically. With both hands. And they bounce. I went up to a C cup and suddenly I understood the hype.

Now I stand in front of the mirror like a proud mom at a graduation.

“Look at them go!” I shout to my boyfriend, eyes sparkling like I just discovered the meaning of life (spoiler: it’s cleavage).

So no, I’m not “showing off” or “asking for it.” I’m celebrating the body that took three decades, five kids, and one escape from hell to finally feel like home.

These boobs? They’re not just titties. They’re trauma trophies.

So if you see me out and about with a little extra bounce, feel free to admire.

Because baby, I earned every curve.

And if you think that’s inappropriate? Don’t worry, my boobs didn’t grow for you anyway.

They grew because I survived.

And they look fabulous doing it!