When I found out I was having a daughter in 2024, I thought becoming her mother would force me to finally make peace with my body. Not because I was suddenly confident and decided I loved it, but because I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life teaching a little girl that the body she inherited from me was something to be ashamed of.
In some ways, it did change me. I’ve tried desperately to become much more aware of the things I say about myself, the way I talk about my body, the way I let a bad outfit or an unflattering picture dictate my entire mood. I don’t want her watching me constantly trying to become smaller, different, “better.” Constantly tugging on my shirts and taking an extra half an hour to get dressed because I hate how everything in my closet looks on me. But having a daughter didn’t magically make me comfortable in my own skin. Those feelings can’t and don’t just disappear after years of deep-seated insecurity from what I saw in the mirror.
After consulting my doctor and getting her opinion and advice, I decided to schedule a breast reduction for this fall, after my second and final pregnancy. However, the decision comes with complications beyond the clinical.
The procedure is not purely cosmetic, as I’ve struggled with back issues for as long as I can remember—including throwing my back out (which I previously thought was just a turn of phrase). That was more painful than both of my labors. But it doesn’t feel purely practical, either. It lives somewhere in between. I want to be more comfortable in my body, but if I’m being completely honest, I also want to like the way my body looks. I want to put on clothes without immediately thinking about how my boobs change the way they fit. I want to look in the mirror and feel a little less like I am negotiating (on good days) or fighting (on bad days) with my reflection.
And then there is the guilt. Not necessarily guilt about having the surgery, but about what it requires from everyone else. I am choosing to do this. And because I am choosing it, I have to ask other people to help take care of my children while I recover. I won’t be able to pick them up, or fulfill my everyday routine as a stay-at-home mom.
That has felt harder for me to justify. If I were sick or this were an emergency, I wouldn’t think twice about asking for help. But because this is something I decided to do for myself, that is considered “elective,” I don’t feel I’ve earned the right to ask for help. I found myself questioning whether I had any business making my family and friends accommodate me.
I also know how lucky I am to even have the option to do this. There are so many moms who would love to make a decision for themselves, or just have a little time to focus on their own needs, but don’t have the support system to make it happen: no family nearby, no partner who can take over, no friend who can swoop in when they need an extra set of hands. And when you don’t have that kind of support, it’s not just about whether you feel guilty asking for help. It’s about not having anyone to ask in the first place. I don’t take the people who show up for me for granted.
As mothers, we make choices for ourselves all the time. We go to dinner with friends. We take girls trips. We get expensive haircuts. We do things that require someone else to tag in for a few hours, a day, or sometimes even longer. So why does it feel so different when the choice is about our own body? When you become a mother, you become so accustomed to thinking of your body in terms of what it can do for everyone else. My breasts have been functional in every literal way. They’ve been part of pregnancy, postpartum, feeding, and nurturing my kids and there is no discounting that, but they’ve also caused me intense physical pain and made me incredibly uncomfortable in my own skin. I don’t want those feelings to make me a lesser version of myself anymore. I want my children to experience me at my very best.
Society has always placed value on the way a woman looks, and there is a part of me that feels embarrassed to have been affected by beauty standards so deeply rooted in the patriarchy. I don’t want my choice to become an example to my daughter that she needs to fall in line and look the way other people think she should. I don’t want her to inherit my insecurities, but I also don’t want her to think that I never had them. I want to show her what it looks like to have agency over her own body, and that she has the power to make her own choices. I hope that, by being honest with her now, I will give her permission to always be honest with herself when it comes to body image. I want to show her that her life can take whatever shape she sees fit.
Lauren is a writer and creative who has spent years covering the fitness and wellness space. She was diagnosed with OCD and health anxiety in 2020, and experienced challenging pregnancies before giving birth to her daughter, Romy, in January 2024 and son, Merit, in October 2025.
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