I expected my breasts to change after breastfeeding two children, but I didn't expect them to change quite as much as they did. Going from a C to a G to a god-knows-what-I-was-when-my-milk-came-in and back down to a B twice in three years apparently does a bit of a number on you, and when everything finally "settled," as it were, it settled down (...ha?).

But it wasn't "what I looked like" that was the problem, exactly - it was how I felt. I mean it when I say that I'm more or less happy with my body - sometimes I love it, sometimes I wish some things about it looked a little different, just like anyone. It hasn't always been this way - I've written here and there about the anorexia I suffered from when I was in my early twenties (and will write about it more one day, when I can) - and trust me: after that experience I'm well aware of what it feels like to hate your body.

I don't hate my body. I don't hate my breasts, either. But after having two children, and having them go through such dramatic changes, they ended up virtually unrecognizable to me; they barely even felt like mine. I had no sense of them as a part of my body, and certainly didn't connect them to my sense of sexual identity.