There are certain things in life that can make you feel out of place in your own skin. A growth spurt, the day you got glasses, the time you insisted on getting bangs, (or if you were really unlucky, the addition of head gear). But for 9-year-old Allison, the entire year of third grade was a doozy. 

It wasn’t all bad. After years of left-handed pencil smudging, I earned the right to use a real pen at school. Pen in hand, I embarked on my first foray into storytelling, which, aside from voraciously reading Christopher Pike and RL Stine novels, was the only thing that lit my brain on fire. It’s also the grade in which I discovered the unearthly beauty of Rob Lowe during an extremely memorable viewing of The Outsiders.

But third grade was also the year I got boobs and began a long, complicated relationship with my chest that would be marred with intense embarrassment, shame, and self-consciousness…that is, until I had a baby. 

The Self-Conscious Urge to Wear Shirts Up to My Neck

When I tell you that I tried to hide my body during the years after my boobs appeared, I mean I wore my older brother’s jeans and baggy T-shirts on repeat. I would do anything to pretend I looked just like everybody else, to not draw attention to myself, which was getting increasingly more difficult as I had clearly entered puberty. By the time fourth grade rolled around, I’d shot up about two feet and towered over all my friends who still looked like children. It was a weird time. I got looks. I got comments from older girls. I got unwanted attention from people who thought I was much more mature than my age. All of that colored my view of my body, especially my boobs, and I spent the next 20 years or so—with a few exceptions (ahem, college)—covering them up with the least sexy shirts I could find. 

So, when I got pregnant, the idea of breastfeeding wasn’t super appealing. The benefits of it— yes, I could get on board with those. But the mechanics of it? Ughhhh. Still, I was determined to try it for my son, so I mentally prepared myself for the uncomfortable feelings that might come up. What I didn’t prepare for, though? That I would struggle to breastfeed, which meant I would have to work with lactation consultants and whip my shirt off in front of strangers in semi-public spaces. (Not to mention the whole grappling with my breasts changing from big to enormous during pregnancy and postpartum thing.) 

An Immediate I-Don’t-Give-a-Shit Attitude

If you had seen me in the hospital room after giving birth, you might’ve actually mistaken me for an exhibitionist or at the very least, someone who was very comfortable with their body. I had just pushed out a small child, I was wearing a diaper and some kind of Ace bandage around my chest, my hair was exploding out of my head in a frizzy halo, and right when I was considering taking a shower—a doctor walked in. 

For a hot second, I thought maybe I should grab a robe or a towel in a feeble attempt to cover myself up. For an even hotter second, I considered whether I should feel the deep, burning, embarrassment that former me would have undoubtedly been swimming in at this moment. But the funny thing was, no shame came. Instead, I felt nothing. I stood there in my diaper and makeshift bra and chatted with the doctor about how I was feeling, whether I’d pooped yet, and the scorcher of a July day it was shaping up to be. This was the new me. The naked-mom me. 

The truth is, I was in so deep trying to figure out what the hell was going on that the idea of body shame was actually foreign to me. Sure, it was freeing, but it was also terrifying at the same time. Everything I knew about myself was in question. I had no idea who this happily nude person was—and this was just a smidge of the overnight transformation I was experiencing. 

In My Topless Era

Now that the body shame bandaid had been ripped off, I went forth into my topless life with gusto. (This period of time has affectionately been named, my naked months). The lactation consultant at the hospital twisted and smashed my boobs every which way, rubbed ointment on my nipples, and talked to me about the how-tos of breastfeeding with a completely straight face while inches away from my G cups. I was not fazed.

When I struggled to breastfeed by myself at home, I had both in-home and hospital lactation appointments. At the hospital, as soon as I stepped into the room, it was immediately mask on, tits out (a COVID times struggle). Again, the lactation consultant got all up in there, showing me how to get my son to latch, giving me hands-on techniques, and chatting with me while I sat there holding my baby against my bare chest, as if my half-nakedness was the most natural thing in the world. 

Then, as if to test out my newfound naked-embracing attitude, I found myself one day in the pediatrician’s office, boobs out, as my son’s doctor—I repeat, my son’s pediatrician—held my boob in an attempt to get him to latch. In hindsight, I find my absence of embarrassment in these situations a bit shocking, but I also know it was replaced with an intense desire to make breastfeeding work. I was willing to do anything, including baring my heart, soul, and chest to anyone who could help.  

Had it been an easier time for me, had the latch been good and my milk supply plentiful, my naked months probably would have extended to half-a-year or more. But with the struggle to breastfeed and produce enough milk for my son, I also began pumping every three hours. It sucked out a bit more milk, of course, but it was also sucking out my soul. When I made the difficult decision to stop pumping or attempting to breastfeed after three months, the shame came back, but this time it was different. I felt like I’d let my son down. I’d done everything I could—I completely overrode decades of my self-conscious brain wiring—but sadly, being okay with my own nakedness wasn’t enough to make breastfeeding work for us. 

The Way Back to Wearing Clothes

Now that I’m on the other side of my nudity journey, it’s hard to imagine so readily taking my top off. I don’t feel like that person anymore—the scared, overwhelmed, desperate new mom I was—and yet I understand her. The trying so hard to breastfeed. The sadness in switching to formula. The love that took up residence in my bones. I would have done anything for my son, including forcibly overriding fundamental parts of myself—and I still do that today. Now it just looks more like overcoming intense introversion to chat with potential parent friends at the park.

I still have deep insecurities about my body, but I’m softer with myself now. I care less. Granted, I no longer whip off my shirt without a second thought, but, I do know if I were to walk that path again—holding the weight of my own heart in a bundle against my chest—I’d be topless and shameless again before you could even say “Boobs.”