I have large breasts. At times in my life, it made me feel shame.

The author says that having large breast has made her feel shame throughout her life. Courtesy of the author

I was 10 and back-to-school shopping with my best friend. We’d found a cardigan sweater vest with a pleated skirt ensemble and wanted to buy matching ones in different colors. The store owner, a commanding, well-coiffed woman, came over to help. She pulled the royal blue for Marilyn and pointed her toward the dressing room. I was already holding the green I favored, so I turned in the same direction, but the woman’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

As I turned around, she pulled the clothes from my arms and replaced them with the next size up. “You’re chesty,” she said. This was the first time a stranger had commented about my changing body.

Shame burned me, and I wanted to throw the clothes down and bolt from the store. But Mar, having heard the woman, looked back at me, understanding. She knew I’d just gotten a training bra and wanted her mother to buy her one, too. It was so new we actually spelled the word in a whisper, as if it were code: B-R-A.

But it wasn’t the last time I felt shame about my chest.

I didn’t want to draw more attention to my boobs

I was 26 and shopping with my stylish girlfriend Jolie, whom I’d met while working at a public relations firm off Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I asked Jolie if the jeans I was trying on made my butt look big. We giggled, and she assured me they were flattering.

I continued to study myself in the dressing room mirror, assessing if the blouse I was trying on made my boobs appear even more prominent or allowed for too much cleavage. I didn’t ask Jolie, though, because I didn’t want to draw attention to my chest, as that discerning store owner had back when I was a developing between

People assume I’m flirting when I’m not

At 39, I was a wife and mother while also dealing with chronic migraine. I lived in near-constant pain, with no more than a day or two off between attacks. Because my good days were both rare and unpredictable, I couldn’t volunteer as I once had at my son’s private Christian school, which meant I’d lost any traction or consideration a family received from either high volunteering hours or generous financial donations. When a new head of school was installed, I sought him out to discuss a developing issue with my son. As I walked onto campus that day to meet with him, I spied a mom I knew. She approached me, looking me up and down — I assumed because I was not sporting my usual yoga-pants-with-pony-tail look.

a family received from either high volunteering hours or generous financial donations. When a new head of school was installed, I sought him out to discuss a developing issue with my son. As I walked onto campus that day to meet with him, I spied a mom I knew. She approached me, looking me up and down — I assumed because I was not sporting my usual yoga-pants-with-pony-tail look.

Instead, I was wearing street clothes and make-up. When I explained where I was headed, she nodded and then snatched the scarf I was wearing off my neck, revealing my V-neck sweater and protruding cleavage. She raised an eyebrow archly and gave me a look. Embarrassed, I pulled my scarf from her hands and strode off without a word.

The first sign of the gossip swirling around me came a few weeks later when a school mom pulled me aside after church and said, in a hushed, concerned voice, “You know, Diana, he’s married.” I was horrified, as her words were tantamount to an accusation. My cheeks burned with shame, followed by something else. Anger. I felt it rising up inside me, but I batted it down; I could not and would not deal with such feelings in my beleaguered, weakened state.I had to start therapy because I had panic attacks

I vowed never to return to the school’s church again and pivoted to attending mass with my Catholic husband. During the service, I took to staring at the confessionals, wishing I could tell the priest my truth and, in so doing, absolve myself of the self-enforced, invisible scarlet letter that burned hot upon my chest. Because I felt as if the school moms were judging me as a bad person and bad mother, I began to suffer panic attacks. I sought out a therapist, but instead of overcoming my anxiety, I slid into a depression that would deepen and eventually become treatment-resistant.

Fast forward four years to today, when I am recovered and thriving. I still see the same therapist who counseled me through it all. On a recent visit, the voluptuous Victoria told me about a study where women with big breasts were found to be more likely to experience depression, low self-esteem, and anxiety. “Researchers point to the shame women like us carry,” she said. “It’s an issue often overlooked.”

What Victoria shared stayed with me. Indeed, because of my lived experience, I am convinced that we, as women, need to talk about the judgments we may unknowingly or unwittingly carry inside our heads — as openly and often as possible — until we feel safe in the knowledge that there is nothing to fear from the greater load some of us carry upon our chest.