Why I Got Implants: A Story of Shame, Asymmetry, and Self-Love

First, I want to begin by saying thank you.

To every single person who has shown up with love, support, or kind words as I’ve begun to open up about my Breast Implant Illness and my upcoming explant surgery — your encouragement has meant more than I can explain.

It can be vulnerable to share these pieces of ourselves, especially when they come with so many years’ layers of shame and self-judgment.

But I’ve been offered the greatest blessings in knowing that my words have made some people stop and think — have inspired them to share my words with someone they love who has implants — and even more... some have even been convinced to not get the implants they had been wanting and planning for. That brings me the most satisfaction and sense of gratitude. Like, tears-to-my-eyes gratitude.

That connection and your support remind me why it’s so important to speak truthfully.

And in the spirit of truth — today, the day before I get my implants removed,  I want to tell you the whole story of why I got implants in the first place.

Because this part... this part has taken me nearly two decades to be ready to share.

But I believe someone out there might need to hear it. I sure did when I was younger.

I remember the first time I became truly self-aware of my female body as it held up against beauty standards.

When I was 11 years old, we were taking our first big family vacation in Mexico, and while being fitted by a local dressmaker, she pointed out that my breasts were different sizes. My mother — bless her heart — shrugged it away with a retort of, “She’s still developing, it’s normal.”

She wasn’t wrong — and she saved me the embarrassment of being visibly uncomfortable in that moment. But a light switch turned on in my head. There was this sudden idea that something’s wrong with me — or at least abnormal enough for a professional who fits bodies daily to remark on it.

So from 11 years old until 19, I carried a secret that quietly shaped the way I saw myself — and my body.

I had a significant case of breast asymmetry. It wasn’t as noticeable in those early years, but my growth spurt happened early, and by about 13 I couldn’t deny that the difference was getting... quite significant.

Now, a little asymmetry is normal. In fact, it’s so normal that there’s a common phrase about it: “They’re sisters, not twins.” Many women naturally have about a cup size difference between their breasts.

But for a very small percentage of us, the difference is more extreme — and in my case, it was medically classified as a deformity.

I had an A cup on one side and a C/D cup on the other.

And in a world obsessed with polished beauty ideals — especially in the late 90s and early 2000s, when thin, perfect, symmetrical bodies were everywhere, bullying was common, and media was desperately lacking body positivity — this difference felt unbearable.

I internalized it as something deeply shameful. I was horrified that my body was so “othered” from those I saw around me.

I became a master of hiding and strategic angles during quick changes in locker rooms, in the theater dressing room, sleepovers, pool parties... carefully selecting swimsuits and outfits and always having a sense of dread.

Too shameful as a teen to walk into a lingerie store and purchase one of those realistic, silicone “chick filet” bra inserts for padding... I secretly clipped shoulder pads from my mom’s and grandma’s old jackets and shirts, and padded that one side of my bra.

All day I would obsessively and very discreetly check and adjust, as they could slip out of place and create a noticeable lumpy difference — and depending on the shirt I was wearing, could become noticeable if someone peered down the front of my shirts (hello, high school boys).

I was always checking, adjusting, hoping no one would notice.

Talk about self-image neurosis.

Meanwhile, I would watch other girls move freely and casually in their bodies, laughing and dressing openly around one another — talking about their bodies, comparing breasts and bras, and discussing hooking up with boys. I longed for that kind of freedom — but it felt impossible for me. Like I didn’t get to deserve it.

Instead, I secretly shrank inward.

No one knew. Not my best friends. Not even my mom — who simply assumed I had become a more private and modest teenager. Which did align with my involvement in the Mormon church during that time. No one was the wiser. And that’s exactly what I wanted.

But what was really happening was a deepening pattern of self-loathing and secrecy that I carried with me every day.

As long as people didn’t realize that I was “deformed,” then I could skirt through my teenage years — with the light of corrective plastic surgery at the end of the tunnel when I could legally make the choice for myself.

I spent endless hours from age 12 to 19 scouring the internet for photos of women who looked like me — to not feel so alone, to try to convince myself that I wasn’t as much of a freak of nature as I thought (it didn’t work).

I combed through so many plastic surgeons’ websites, searching cases of asymmetry in hopes to have an idea of what they did (augmentation on the smaller side, reduction on the larger side?) and how their results ended up. There weren’t a ton of examples in those early internet days.

It was immensely isolating.

But I knew that if I could just keep hiding a little longer, then once I “got surgery,” I could feel like a full, balanced, “normal” woman that maybe wouldn’t be shunned or mocked when sharing her body.

But the thing is, I was ashamed about wanting plastic surgery too.

I was raised by loving parents who taught me to value inner beauty and kindness. I didn’t align with what I viewed as typical “plastic blonde bimbo / Hollywood” aesthetics.

I often thought — if I just had TWO matching small breasts, I would be so satisfied.

I didn’t want bigger breasts.
I just wanted to match. To feel normal.

I wanted to stop feeling like my body was a mistake.

I knew that if anyone ever saw my body fully, they would see this “flaw” — and that haunted me.

It’s so sad for me to reflect on this self-loathing, years later, because I am so aware of how it shaped my lack of self-love. The body shame that builds during adolescence is brutal, especially when you feel visibly different.

Even as I began receiving compliments about my appearance as a teenager, getting “pretty girl” comments... I felt like a fraud.

I always smiled and said thanks or sheepishly waved it off... all while thinking to myself: If you really knew what I looked like, you wouldn’t think I’m attractive.
That inner-judgment really shaped my self-worth.

By the time I reached young adulthood, I still hadn’t told my closest friends. The first person I did share this with was my first serious boyfriend at age 17.

And in a twist of manipulative irony, he told me he loved me exactly as I was — but also warned that “most guys wouldn’t.”

And, for good measure, he threatened to leave me if I ever got surgery, making it clear that he couldn’t respect me if I “went plastic.”

This is the same outwardly charming high school boyfriend who, on the daily, manipulated and gaslit me, isolated me from friends and family, cheated on me constantly, threatened to kill himself if I left him, and convinced my young and impressionable self to take “sexy videos” with him (pre-surgery, in all my asymmetrical glory), and then proceeded to share said video with other males over the years — I came to find out.

(For the record, Justin: I was a minor in those videos. You were not. If the law doesn’t get you eventually — we know karma will.)

He was my first. I was foolishly blind and “in love” for the first time, and definitely learned the hard youthful lesson of putting trust in the wrong place.

My “first” was, to this day, the most dangerously narcissistic person I’ve had a relationship with. And if you know — you know: Those types of encounters (especially at a young age) do a number on your self-worth.

Needless to say — praise all that be — that relationship didn’t last.

And my decision to pursue surgery and symmetry remained unchanged.

In 2006 at age 19, after extensive research, consults, and much inner conflict, I chose to get textured silicone implants.

Well — I was convinced to get them.

I went into those consultations being clear that I wasn’t married to the idea of augmentation, and would consider reduction.

Time and again, plastic surgeons pressed that augmentation was the solution — that I absolutely wouldn’t be satisfied with my results if going the smaller route.

“I’ve treated many cases like this, and women always want to go bigger. It will give you the full-bodied confidence you’ve always wanted.”

I wanted to feel attractive for the first time ever.  So I did it. I listened to the plastic surgeons. 

And lucky me — this new hot product had just recently hit the market, claiming a safer silicone implant than the ones of the past.

HAH. (Read more about textured silicone implants here.)

And I entered into a new era of my life...

To be able to wear clothes without strategic padding.
To experience intimacy without feeling like a freak of nature.
To look at my reflection without hating what I saw in the mirror.
To actually be able to wear clothing that didn’t require modest necklines or obsessive check-ins.
To feel free. To feel at ease. To feel normal.

At the time, it felt like the only path to reclaim a sense of normalcy in my body.

So I only told the very few closest people necessary (best friends, parents, and eventually intimate partners).

Because despite the fact that my surgery was performed to correct a deformity, I kept the whole thing largely private for nearly 20 years.

Why? Because deep down, I still felt ashamed.

Ashamed to be someone who got plastic surgery.
Ashamed that my values and proclamations of body positivity and self-love and holistic-living hadn’t been “strong enough” to carry me through without intervention. 

Of course, I no longer see it that way.

Cosmetic surgery is a personal decision, and no one should be judged for making choices they feel are best for their body (I just wish we were all more informed about the risks of silicone... hence, here I am).

But back then, I held myself to an impossible standard. And to be fair — I was dealing with a pretty rare physical situation.

Because explaining the implants would also mean explaining the original asymmetry — a story I wasn’t ready to tell — I chose silence and denial when the occasional person/friend asked, “Are they real?”

Here’s the thing... I didn’t expect to end up with a bust this big.

I was a bit shocked when I came out of surgery.

They felt... quite pin-up-y — which I had no choice but to embrace after going into debt over it.

I lived with that silence for nearly two decades, slowly sharing with friends as I slowly released the impossible criticism I held over myself.

I’ve realized that silence carries its own weight — the weight of unnecessary shame and self-judgment.

But now, at 39 — with a stronger sense of self and far fewer cares about what anyone else thinks — I’m done carrying that weight.

I’m letting it go.

If you’ve ever felt like a monster in your own skin — please hear me:

You are not.
You are not broken.
You are not alone.

You are worthy of love, desire, safety, and softness — exactly as you are.

I’m now telling this story because Breast Implant Illness is real, and it can devastate your health. It sure has mine.

Even if you’re dealing with a situation like mine — where you feel like surgery is the only option — I hope you’ll explore all the alternatives first.

Reduction. Fat transfer (though I have reservations about this after reading studies — more on that soon).

I know how painful it is to feel unhappy in your body.

But I can tell you this with full conviction:

No matter what your starting point is, it is not worth feeling like you are being slowly poisoned for years.

To each their own, of course.

Many women love their implants and experience no complications.

Others go years without recognizing the symptoms of BII, often assuming it’s other ailments or like me, food allergies.

But too many of us do suffer in silence.

And too many are gaslit by surgeons or partners who dismiss our concerns.

Don’t ignore your body’s voice.

Don’t let anyone — surgeon, partner, or otherwise — tell you your experience isn’t valid.

I’ll be sharing more soon about how my health went on a downhill spiral about two years into having my implants.

For now — I leave you with this:

To your health.
And to your freedom — in your body and beyond.