W

hen I was 16 years old, I read 
an article about Modern 
Family star Ariel Winter’s 
breast reduction surgery, which took her 
from a size 32F to a 34D. “It’s amazing 
to finally feel right,” she said in an 
interview with Glamour. “This is how 
I was supposed to be.” Two years later, 
I sat on my boyfriend’s bed, my arms 
defensively crossed over my own 30F 
chest, realizing that I didn’t feel right at 
all. 
“Are you still planning on getting that 
breast reduction? I thought about it when 
I saw how bad the stretch marks are,” he 
asked, gesturing to my naked chest. 
“Maybe,” I swallowed the word 
carefully as though it could break. 
Instead of reveling in an intimate 
moment, he was pointing out the ugly 
marks on my breasts — my biggest 
insecurity. 
Were 
his 
words 
from 
moments before — calling me sexy — all 
pretend? I pressed two thin arms over 
my heavy chest as my face grew red and 
I fought the urge to cry. I wished he’d 
never look at me again. 
He didn’t realize how deep his words 
cut, they burned inside of me for weeks. 
He was 19, older than me, and the 
first person who felt entitled to have 
an opinion on my body. We were the 
definition of “it’s complicated” and the 
on and off state of our relationship made 
my potential breast reduction surgery 
something I didn’t want to discuss with 
him. His words made me sink into his 
navy-blue sheets in humiliation. 
My body— a feminine, imperfect thing 
— was worth nothing to him but a dig at 
its imperfections. I felt like I was nothing 
beyond my boobs. 
After that, I knew I’d have the 
surgery. A size 30F bra on a 5-foot-3 
frame, I wanted to live unrestricted by 
the attributes disrupting my every day 
— both physically and emotionally. I 
needed for someone, anyone, to see past 
them. When I first met that boyfriend, I 
believed he wanted to be with me past 
my chest. Yet he was still surprised 
when I told him I wanted a breast 
reduction. Like so many of my peers 
and acquaintances, he wondered why 
a young girl with a small frame would 
want to erase her breasts — something 
other people pay to have enlarged. 
Despite how he treated me, I had 
a weak spot for his humor and dark 
brown eyes. They’d won me over 
instantly — but 6 months later, I was 
desperately struggling to become the 
person he wanted, not realizing this 
was unattainable. Between the internal 
struggle with my physical appearance 
and the yo-yo of our toxic relationship, I 
worried I was nothing but a body. 
At 18, I became an expert at hiding my 
breasts and feelings — in life and social 

media. On Instagram, I refrained from 
posting anything revealing. I wanted 
my life to appear untroubled and light 
as air. As I struggled with my body, I 
hid behind feigned smiles and a facade 
of confidence. With a Big Ten college 
education, sorority sisters and an older 
boyfriend, I made myself look like I was 
happy. If you vaguely knew me through 
images on your phone screen, you never 
would’ve known that I couldn’t get 
dressed in the morning because of the 
internal battle I was fighting. 
Immediately following our break-
up we reunited in a vicious cycle. The 
constant push and pull of our relationship 
had me in a fragile emotional state. I 
dreaded waking up because I dreaded 
getting dressed. I couldn’t run, because 
wearing two sports bras left bloody 
marks on my skin. I couldn’t go to the 
beach because bathing suits just didn’t 
fit. Shopping — from searching for prom 
dresses to trying to find a shirt to fit me 
— became a nightmare I avoided. My 
friends and my boyfriend simply did not 
understand. But on social media, I could 
be instantly desired, liked and affirmed 
without struggle. 
After he mentioned the stretch marks, 
I posted a picture of myself at a football 
game in September, still tan from 
summer, smiling. It was the first time I 
used Instagram as a ploy to make believe 
my sadness away. I didn’t even realize 
what I was doing until after the photo 

uploaded and I watched it gather likes 
from my screen. 
In the photo, I didn’t look like a girl 
who despised her body and felt like a 
stranger in her skin. The warm glow of 
the screen hit my face and I felt elated. 
I could imagine him, looking at the 
picture and falling in love with me, 
instantly regretting his harsh words. 
Whenever I was insecure about the body 
that subjected me to sexualization, or 
remembered I had stretch marks and 
imperfections that made me unlovable, I 
posted something and pretended to feel 
OK. 
My profile seemed untroubled — 
there was no room for mental illness 
or melancholia. It was my drug. Snap, 
scroll, post, affirm, feeling refreshed as 
I was bathed in the affection of digital 
hearts. I was more than huge boobs — I 
was worth commenting on.
On May 4, 2017 I had the six-hour 
surgery, making the choice to change my 
life. My mother and father waited, full of 
support and excitement in the lobby, and 
when I woke up and opened my eyes, my 
mother and I both burst into tears. I will 
forever be indebted to her for advocating 
for me during the process of insurance 
coverage and recovery. I felt freed from 
the oppression my chest had caused, but 
it still hadn’t been enough to free my 
mind. There was still weight there. 
The relationship had ended in April, yet 
I hadn’t stopped obsessively monitoring 

if he’d viewed or liked my Instagram 
page, or whether I was worth a number 
of likes or comments. Even at a new and 
improved size 32B, 7 pounds lifted off 
me, I had stretch marks. I lacked the 
confidence I needed to end my reliance 
on social media as a faulty crutch for 
self-love. I craved the affirmation that 
I received with each post; I wanted to 
prove that I was more than a body. 
What I didn’t realize? It wasn’t the 
world’s love I was after; it was my own. 
When I recovered, I put on a tank top. 
I was giddy in the way it fell gracefully 
over my new boobs. Though I still donned 
a clunky surgical bra and rows of deep 
red scars, I felt beautiful. My mom took a 
picture of me in sweatpants and the top, 
my face still puffy from the anesthesia 
with no makeup. I considered deleting 
the photograph. There was nothing 
exceptional or envy-worthy about it. But 
it wasn’t faux affirmation I was after 
by posting it. It wasn’t meant for an 
ex-boyfriend to see and call to profess 
his love. I didn’t spend hours selecting a 
filter or thinking up captions. I just hit 
post, and as I watched the photo upload, 
I recognized my right to choose. Just like 
with the surgery, I could navigate my 
own path because I’d never lose a battle 
about my own happiness. I put down my 
phone, wrapped my arms around my 
chest and exhaled — everything finally 
felt right.

Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement 
7B
Wednesday, September 18, 2019 // The Statement
7B

BY ELI RALLO, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Getting it off my chest

ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE HUANG

