The Rolling Hills of Tuscany
The postpartum “glow” they envied was just malnourishment in a knee-length skirt.
No, this isn’t OnlyFans… calm down, perv. These are the scenic hills of Tuscany (as my boyfriend calls them).
And by Tuscany, I mean the tits I never had until this year.
For decades I was a flat, god-approved ironing board. From “you’ve got the body of a boy” to “no man will want you without curves,” everyone felt entitled to declare me lacking. Well, congratulations - your prophecy expired. 🎉
I’ve gained 14.6 pounds this year. Every ounce is couture. Every curve is earned. And my boobs? Absolutely thriving.
When the body lives in survival mode - a chronic state of fight-or-flight, it changes how we process food and regulate weight. Oh, it’s definitely not me living in it for 30 years. 🫨
Trauma activates the stress response system, releasing cortisol and adrenaline. While short bursts of cortisol can increase appetite, prolonged stress often suppresses hunger, speeds up calorie burn, and disrupts digestion.
Hypervigilance (aka, walking on eggshells) keeps the nervous system on high alert, which diverts energy away from digestion, reduces nutrient absorption, and subtly increases daily energy expenditure.
Healing restores nervous system balance, hunger cues, and digestion, allowing the body to gain or maintain healthy weight for the first time in years - but in my case, since birth.
During a date night on Friday, my boobs looked downright edible. I couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop touching. Not in a porn way but in a holy-shit-I-survived-and-now-I-have-cleavage way!
This is what happens when you stop living in fear, are no longer starving yourself for an invisible sky-daddy and when your life is no longer a tightrope over someone else’s wrath.
So, no, I didn’t “bounce back” after childbirth - unless you mean I bounced straight into starvation mode. And for fucks sake, before you ask, no, I wasn’t “hitting the gym.” I was running on pure hypervigilance, zero sleep, zero help, and a 24/7 schedule that would break a Navy SEAL. My “post-baby body” wasn’t a fitness success story, it was a slow-motion collapse disguised as a dress size.
My breasts are a symbol of healing, and of safety. This is what self-love looks like when it fills out a dress.
It’s my life. My body. My rules.
And yes - finally my cleavage!!
P.S. - Consider this your reminder to keep your body “compliments” to your damn self. Seriously. Shut up. You have no idea what someone’s surviving just to stand in front of you.
Your healing continues.