exposed

I’ll never forget the beach walk with my mother when I confessed that I wanted breast implants. As a senior in college approaching graduation, I’d been deliberating on this decision for months. I was so nervous to tell her, even a bit embarrassed, fearful she might judge me. Paradoxically, my mom was my model – I consciously and unconsciously emulated the measures she took to uphold the standard of beauty and perfection she set for herself. Maybe I was fearful of my parents seeing me as anything but their child, much less a woman who cared about enhancing a part of her body that is so often sexualized. Truthfully, I don’t recall all the stories swirling in my head before I broached the topic, but the angst I felt is still palpable. To my mother’s credit, she neither shamed nor judged me. While she wasn’t overtly supportive, she acknowledged that I was technically an adult and insisted on helping me find the right doctor.

Ironically, it was that right doctor who discouraged me from going under the knife. But if I’m anything, I’m resolute and take action – albeit sometimes, too swiftly. I barely remember the immediate aftermath of the surgery, other than I was anxious to get back to my regular workout routine lest I start losing muscle and gaining weight. I do clearly recall how awkward I felt about telling my friends and subsequent partners about my procedure. I was compelled to proactively address what I perceived to be the elephant in the room and then justify my decision as neither superficial, sexual nor a superfluous use of my savings. “It made me feel more comfortable with how my clothes fit,” I rationalized to others and to myself. But deep down, I was yearning for perfection, and this was just another means to achieve it. For the next 17 years, I deliberately wore clothing that was neither too low nor too tight because the last thing I wanted was attention on my breasts, especially if it meant I might be taken less seriously as an intelligent, sophisticated woman.

A year ago, I began hearing the quiet whisper of a voice in my head – not the usual shouting critic this time. It told me to remove the implants. I knew I should have addressed the issue sooner; my doctor made it clear from the first consultation that they would need to be replaced in 10 to 15 years. I kept thinking I’d deal with it after meeting the love of my life, starting a family, and finishing breastfeeding babies. But the Universe had a different order of operations in store. If I’m honest, that was my excuse for ignoring the real matter: how I actually feel about my body – with or without implants. I hid them for almost two decades, during which time I sadly continued to nitpick every aspect of my body, and yet I couldn’t fathom what I’d look like without them. Throughout the last year, the signs and the voice only grew louder, despite multiple doctors trying to convince me to replace the implants with new ones. I knew it was time to face the music – or the knife, rather – and I went back under with the intention of honoring my own intuition and recovering my natural form.

I was prepared to be in some shock upon seeing myself for the first time, but nothing could truly prepare me for how I would really feel. Before I even looked down, the doctor informed me that one of the implants had been ruptured, and I likely had silicone leaking into my body for at least a year or more. Right away, it confirmed that I’d made the right choice, at least for the sake of my internal health. But as for the external, the dissonance as I analyze my new aesthetic continues to challenge me psychologically and emotionally. Now, as I look in the mirror, I see not only the original scars but new ones – larger and more pronounced. And yet, my authentic self knows that those scars are representative of the battle with my shadow, an essential part of my journey to real self-love. The breast implants were never a call for others to look at me. In fact, I kept them so well hidden that anyone who hadn’t known me before had no idea. Instead, I now understand that they were a desperate cry for me to see myself. I thought that augmentation would make me happy to look in the mirror naked and exposed, and in retrospect, what it actually exposed was the inner wounding that no amount of surgery could ever heal. So as my body continues to mend itself, so does my soul. It’s a journey of a lifetime, but I know that there is one (or two, to be precise) fewer layers concealing my heart and obstructing my path to becoming the love of my own life.