I went out with Lisa yesterday and within about twenty minutes of being outside I was suddenly, painfully, and quite dramatically aware of how small my boobs are. It wasn’t even a gradual thing. One minute I was fine, chatting away, enjoying the sun on my face, and the next I was walking past women who looked like they were smuggling two perfectly round, gravity-defying watermelons under their tops and I felt like I’d shown up to a party wearing the wrong outfit entirely. It was like my brain decided to do a full stocktake of my body right there in the middle of the street and came back with one very clear conclusion: these are not the boobs of a woman who should be wearing this top in public.
I don’t even know what triggered it. Maybe it was the way the sun was hitting everyone else. Or maybe it was just the simple fact of being outside in summer clothes, where everything feels more exposed. Either way, my brain went from zero to “everyone has better tits than you” in record time. And once that thought is in, it’s very hard to get it out again. It just sits there, making itself comfortable, pointing out every single woman who walks past with even a hint of cleavage like it’s conducting some kind of cruel scientific study.
Lisa, of course, was completely unbothered. She always is. She was walking along in her little summer dress, looking like a normal human woman with normal human proportions, while I was quietly having a full existential crisis about the size of my chest. I kept glancing down at myself like maybe they’d grown in the last five minutes. They hadn’t. They were still there, doing their very best, which apparently isn’t very much at all.
The thing about small boobs in summer is that they don’t just make you feel insecure, they make you feel like you’re cosplaying as a woman with boobs. Like you’ve borrowed someone else’s body for the day and you’re desperately hoping no one notices. You put on a nice top, something that looked cute in the mirror at home, and then you step outside and realise that on women with actual tits, that same top would look sexy and effortless. On you, it just looks like you’re wearing a slightly baggy t-shirt with ideas above its station.
I spent most of the afternoon doing that thing where you keep adjusting your top, pulling it forward slightly, trying to create some kind of illusion of volume that doesn’t actually exist. It never works. All it does is make you look like you’re constantly uncomfortable, which you are, but now you also look fidgety on top of it. Brilliant.
And it’s not even like I hate my boobs all the time. Most days I’m fine with them. I’ve made peace with the fact that they’re small. I’ve even convinced myself on occasion that they’re “cute” or “perky” or whatever other polite word we use when we’re trying to make ourselves feel better. But summer has a way of stripping all that away. Literally and figuratively. The second you’re in a vest top or a summer dress or anything that doesn’t have strategic padding and structure, the truth comes out. And the truth is that I have the chest of someone who probably should’ve been a professional runner or a very serious gymnast, not someone who occasionally wants to feel sexy in public.
Lisa kept catching me glancing at other women and eventually she clocked what was happening. She didn’t say anything at first, which I appreciated, but I could tell she knew. At one point she just looked at me and said, “You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you?” and I didn’t even bother denying it. What’s the point? We’ve known each other long enough that she can read my particular brand of body-related spiral from a mile away.
The worst part is how quickly it happens. One minute you’re enjoying the weather and the next you’re mentally comparing your chest to every single woman within a hundred-metre radius. It’s not even fair competition. These women aren’t even doing anything. They’re just existing. Walking. Sitting outside having a drink. Living their lives with their perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable, perfectly visible boobs, while I’m over here feeling like I forgot to put half my body on this morning.
I tried to shake it off. I really did. I told myself that nobody else was looking at me the way I was looking at myself. That most people are far too wrapped up in their own insecurities to notice mine. That small boobs are actually practical and comfortable and loads of women would kill for them. All the usual things you tell yourself when you’re trying to be rational about something that feels deeply irrational in the moment.
None of it worked.
Because the truth is, sometimes you just want to feel like a woman with tits. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. Just occasionally. Just enough that when you put on a summer top you don’t immediately feel like you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s wardrobe. Is that really so much to ask? Apparently it is. Apparently the universe decided that my regular scheduled reminder that I have small boobs wasn’t quite frequent enough, so it sent me outside on a warm day surrounded by women who clearly got the memo about having a chest.
I kept thinking about all the things I’ve said over the years to make myself feel better about it. “They’re perky.” “They don’t get in the way.” “I can wear whatever I want without looking slutty.” All true, technically. But none of them feel particularly comforting when you’re walking past a woman whose boobs are just… there. Existing. Taking up space. Doing what boobs are apparently supposed to do, which is look like boobs.
It’s funny how something so small (literally) can take up so much mental space. I spent a ridiculous amount of time yesterday thinking about my chest. Way more time than I’ve spent thinking about anything actually important in weeks. And for what? So I could feel slightly worse about myself while trying to enjoy a nice day out with my best friend? Excellent use of my time and energy. Really top tier.
The annoying thing is that I know this feeling will pass. It always does. In a few days I’ll probably be back to not really thinking about my boobs at all. They’ll go back to being just another part of my body that exists without causing me any particular distress. But summer has this way of bringing it all back to the surface. The heat, the clothes, the constant exposure, it all conspires to make you notice things you might otherwise ignore.
I don’t even want massive boobs. I’m not asking for anything dramatic. I just want them to look like they belong to an adult woman when I’m wearing normal summer clothes. Is that really such an outrageous request? Apparently yes. Apparently the universe has decided that my particular brand of humility requires regular visual reminders that other women have been given more in the chest department than I have.
Lisa was very sweet about it, as she always is. She didn’t try to give me any of that fake “but small boobs are so cute though” chat, which I appreciated. She just let me have my little spiral and occasionally made a joke when it got too heavy. That’s the thing about having a best friend who’s known you for years, they know when to take you seriously and when to take the piss. She did both, which was probably exactly what I needed.
By the time we went home I was mostly over it. Mostly. There’s still that little voice in the back of my head that pipes up every now and then, usually when I’m getting dressed or walking past a shop window and catch my reflection. It’s quieter now than it was yesterday, but it’s still there. Whispering. Reminding me. Making sure I don’t get too comfortable in my own skin for too long.
I think that’s what annoys me the most about the whole thing. Not that I have small boobs, I’ve had them my whole life, I’m used to them, but that something as simple as going outside on a warm day can still make me feel like this. After all these years. After all the work I’ve done on myself. After all the times I’ve told myself it doesn’t matter. One afternoon in the sun and suddenly I’m back to square one, comparing myself to strangers and feeling like I came up short.
Maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe some things never fully go away, they just get quieter for a while until something reminds you they’re still there. And apparently summer is one of those things. The heat, the light, the clothes, the constant visual evidence of other women’s bodies, it all adds up to one very clear message: remember those small tits? Yeah. Still there. Still small. Still not what most people picture when they think of “sexy summer body.”
I don’t know. Maybe next time I’ll just stay inside until autumn. Or maybe I’ll just accept that every summer I’m going to have at least one day where I remember, all over again, that my boobs are small and that sometimes that fact makes me feel a particular type of way. Neither option feels particularly appealing, but those seem to be the choices.
For now, I’m just going to sit here, slightly sunburnt and still mildly annoyed at my own chest, and try to remember that this feeling will pass. It always does. Even if the universe seems determined to keep reminding me every summer that I didn’t get the full boob allocation when they were handing them out.
Oh well. At least I have Lisa. And wine. And the ability to write about it until it feels slightly less shit. Small victories.