- My breasts started drawing attention since I was 10 years old.
- I remember vividly times when my large breasts caused me to feel shame.
I was 10 and back-to-school shopping with my best friend. We'd found a cardigan sweater vest with a pleated skirt ensemble and wanted to buy matching ones in different colors. The store owner, a commanding, well-coiffed woman, came over to help. She pulled the royal blue for Marilyn and pointed her toward the dressing room. I was already holding the green I favored, so I turned in the same direction, but the woman's hand on my shoulder stopped me.
As I turned around, she pulled the clothes from my arms and replaced them with the next size up. "You're chesty," she said. This was the first time a stranger had commented about my changing body.
Shame burned me, and I wanted to throw the clothes down and bolt from the store. But Mar, having heard the woman, looked back at me, understanding. She knew I'd just gotten a training bra and wanted her mother to buy her one, too. It was so new we actually spelled the word in a whisper, as if it were code: B-R-A.
But it wasn't the last time I felt shame about my chest.
I didn't want to draw more attention to my boobs
I was 26 and shopping with my stylish girlfriend Jolie, whom I'd met while working at a public relations firm off Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I asked Jolie if the jeans I was trying on made my butt look big. We giggled, and she assured me they were flattering.
I continued to study myself in the dressing room mirror, assessing if the blouse I was trying on made my boobs appear even more prominent or allowed for too much cleavage. I didn't ask Jolie, though, because I didn't want to draw attention to my chest, as that discerning store owner had back when I was a developing tween.
People assume I'm flirting when I'm not
At 39, I was a wife and mother while also dealing with chronic migraine. I lived in near-constant pain, with no more than a day or two off between attacks. Because my good days were both rare and unpredictable, I couldn't volunteer as I once had at my son's private Christian school, which meant I'd lost any traction or consideration a family received from either high volunteering hours or generous financial donations. When a new head of school was installed, I sought him out to discuss a developing issue with my son. As I walked onto campus that day to meet with him, I spied a mom I knew. She approached me, looking me up and down — I assumed because I was not sporting my usual yoga-pants-with-pony-tail look.
Instead, I was wearing street clothes and make-up. When I explained where I was headed, she nodded and then snatched the scarf I was wearing off my neck, revealing my V-neck sweater and protruding cleavage. She raised an eyebrow archly and gave me a look. Embarrassed, I pulled my scarf from her hands and strode off without a word.
The first sign of the gossip swirling around me came a few weeks later when a school mom pulled me aside after church and said, in a hushed, concerned voice, "You know, Diana, he's married." I was horrified, as her words were tantamount to an accusation. My cheeks burned with shame, followed by something else. Anger. I felt it rising up inside me, but I batted it down; I could not and would not deal with such feelings in my beleaguered, weakened state.
I had to start therapy because I had panic attacks
I vowed never to return to the school's church again and pivoted to attending mass with my Catholic husband. During the service, I took to staring at the confessionals, wishing I could tell the priest my truth and, in so doing, absolve myself of the self-enforced, invisible scarlet letter that burned hot upon my chest. Because I felt as if the school moms were judging me as a bad person and bad mother, I began to suffer panic attacks. I sought out a therapist, but instead of overcoming my anxiety, I slid into a depression that would deepen and eventually become treatment-resistant.
Fast forward four years to today, when I am recovered and thriving. I still see the same therapist who counseled me through it all. On a recent visit, the voluptuous Victoria told me about a study where women with big breasts were found to be more likely to experience depression, low self-esteem, and anxiety. "Researchers point to the shame women like us carry," she said. "It's an issue often overlooked."
What Victoria shared stayed with me. Indeed, because of my lived experience, I am convinced that we, as women, need to talk about the judgments we may unknowingly or unwittingly carry inside our heads — as openly and often as possible — until we feel safe in the knowledge that there is nothing to fear from the greater load some of us carry upon our chest.