My Husband Wanted A Divorce, So I Made A Decision I’ve Hidden For 12 Years

In 2010, after a 17-year marriage, my husband asked for a divorce, saying he couldn’t be married anymore.

We had two sons, 14 and 16, not quite two years apart, whom I had nursed over four years straight. My once-perky breasts weren’t the same after. Whose are? They weren’t terrible, just more deflated, like a helium balloon the day after a birthday party.

I used to joke with my husband that I was planning to have breast surgery when I finished nursing. We had laughed hysterically about my desire for surgery because we both knew I was terrified of hospitals and drugs. I was an au naturel granola girl who hadn’t even had caffeine until her mid-30s. I never smoked a cigarette or tried an illegal substance either. Only when I have a migraine do I hesitantly swallow an Advil.

But after my husband asked for a divorce, something inside of me shifted. If I was going back on the market, I needed my before-childbirth body back. Before kids, my breasts were always my standout feature. Not that I showed them off, because I was horribly shy, but because of my petite frame, people couldn’t help but notice my chest. I wasn’t even 5 feet tall, and I was just over 100 pounds, but I had a 32DDDD, according to measurements taken in high school by a saleslady in Victoria’s Secret. 

After pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding, my breasts got even more humongous. I could barely contain them in a swimsuit when I brought my sons to the pool. I looked like Dolly Parton without the blond hair and form-fitting clothing. Instead, I hid behind XXL T-shirts, not wanting an ounce of attention.

As we were going through legal proceedings for our divorce, I demanded that my soon-to-be ex-husband give me money for a breast makeover. (He was the primary breadwinner.) “You must be crazy if you think I’m going to pay for you to get new breasts,” he told me. 

Suddenly I became even more insistent on buying Breasts 2.0, but now as a rebellion, my well-earned right as a childbearing woman. My husband was bolting out of our marriage with more or less the same body, and I was reluctantly starting my life over with a used-up, worn-out one — hanging breasts, larger hips. My feet had even grown half a size. None of it seemed fair.

I received part of my ex’s retirement account and decided to use a portion toward the surgery. I scheduled an appointment with my mom’s plastic surgeon. My mom, like me, had huge boobs, our curse and gift, and when I was still in high school, she had breast reduction surgery. Her breasts were much heavier than mine and killed her back. Bra straps dug into her shoulders. 

Unlike my mom, I wanted surgery less because of back pain and more because of vanity. I’d been married for almost my entire 20s and 30s and was terrified of dating again. Who would want a 40-year-old with two teenagers and a not-perfect body? I was convinced that to find love again, I couldn’t look like a mother. I’d have to revert to my 20-year-old appearance. 

I confidently told the plastic surgeon what I wanted on my first visit. “I want a slight lift and a reduction,” I said. I’d barely shown my breasts to anyone other than my husband, but now I was standing in a room topless with a stranger inspecting them in the same way I had scrutinized desert rocks as a child, searching for sparkly mica. 

The surgeon grabbed my boobs with his cold hands and lifted them toward my collarbone. He then said, “You need implants. Your breasts don’t have enough volume.”