The Flapjack Tittie Committee: On grieving the body you spent a lifetime loving
The party isn’t over, it’s just a different kind of celebration.
A Story That Could Be Any Mother’s, this blog is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A Tale of 2 Titties
You're nine years old and you think that having boobs (big ones) is like, the coolest thing ever. Except, whomp whomp, you don't have them yet. You're shopping at Burdine's with your Nana and as you pass the tween undergarment section, you ask if you can pick out a bra. She scoffs at this ridiculous request considering there’s absolutely no need. When the boys at school call you “flatty,” “mosquito bites,” and “2 peas on an ironing board,” the last thing you would need to spend money on is a bra, right?
So you do what any reasonable nine-year-old does. You take it to God.
"Please, God. Please give me boobies. I will follow all ten commandments and go to temple every Saturday, I promise. I'll even recycle!"
Fast forward to high school and you’ve finally caught up with the other girls in school who have those really cool Victoria’s Secret underwire bras with different prints and sewn-on flowers along the inner cup. You’ve made it!
People actually think your boobs are fake (which feels very validating), but the joke’s on them. God gave you these perfect boobs that look great in everything from bikinis to halter tops and camis that don’t require a bra. Leaving the house braless because I can? Absolutely!
You're nearing thirty and still going boob-strong. You hear women in their mid-to-late thirties talking about breast lifts and implants how they're an absolute must after having kids. You think to yourself (with great confidence), “That will never be me. I’ve been blessed in the chest.”
And then…
You’re in your early 40’s and you become a mom. Your breasts uncomfortably triple in size overnight. You think to yourself, “This is just baby weight and breast milk. It’s fine, I’m fine, Everything’s FINE…”
However, you’re now postpartum, breastfeeding or not, (because no one is exempt) and there is not a single bra that fits your new mush boobs. Nothing in your drawer, nothing at Ross or Target, and even a sports bra feels droopy to you.
Mazel tov! You’ve just become the newest member of the Flapjack Tittie Committee!
Membership comes with the following: Boobs with a compass that only knows South. Wiping boob sweat now requires you to peel your boobs up off your ribs. Crumbs that fall down your shirt as you stress-eat in bed have now become a scavenger hunt until you’re able to shower (which is TBD due to energy levels and time restraints a.k.a. “never-ending baby duty.”)
The Goodbye You Never Got to Say
Somewhere in the brain fog of new parenthood, a thought surfaces that you didn't expect:
"But I never even got to say goodbye."
Before you know it, you're asking ChatGPT the difference between a lift and an implant at 2:07am. You begin to do the math in your head about how you can finance these procedures, especially if you choose the combo meal and get both the lift and the implants (which is strongly suggested by ChatGPT for restoring fullness, firmness and a nipple line that’s built for CPR being safely done to you, God Forbid).
You begin asking yourself the questions:
Who would watch the baby while I recover?
Exactly how painful will it be?
Is this karma for quietly judging the girls who did this in college before they had kids?
And let’s be real, it's okay if the gratitude takes a while to show up. Grief doesn't have a timeline. Some people might try to be helpful and say it shouldn’t matter because you just had a beautiful baby and you should be grateful. It does matter and hearing that isn’t helpful. You had a relationship with this body. You loved it. You're allowed to mourn what changed.
Meanwhile, in the coping department...
You begin using humor, which is a completely valid psychological strategy and also necessary to keep you from completely ugly sobbing on the floor of your shower. You tell yourself you have a newfound talent and can now fold your boob in half, which is a pretty cool party trick. At the very least, it could be a special skill to put on your resume to impress future employers or a “fun fact” you can during an icebreaker activity on Professional Development Day and make things super awkward with your colleagues.
You're not proud of this. Okay, you're a little proud of this.
Where Logic Meets Emotion
And then, slowly, something shifts.
You think about the women in the National Geographic magazines you stumbled across in fourth grade. The boobs that seemed foreign and looked strange to you then. The women whose bodies looked nothing like anything you'd seen in a magazine rack or a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Those boobs now give me a sense of familiarity and make a different kind of sense.
Those women were part of a tribe that honored the mother's form, understood a body changed by birth is a body that had done something extraordinary. They wore their form with pride, strength, and a kind of dignity that had nothing to do with a push-up bra.
You realize you have just been inducted into that tribe too, but you’ve renamed it to make it your own.
Your deflated balloons give you access into the “Badass Women Who Made an Entire Human Inside Their Body Club.” This membership may not be the most glamorous, but it sure is beautiful.
So. What Now?
Whether you get a reboot postpartum or not is completely up to you and there is absolutely no right or wrong way to honor your body. It just would’ve been nice to have a “boob farewell party” in addition to the baby shower.
In the meantime, a few ways to honor your body wherever you are:
Get properly fitted for new bras: Nordstrom does complimentary fittings and your current bra situation is not doing you any favors.
Hold a small, private memorial for the breasts you once knew. This is not a joke. Acknowledgment is the beginning of acceptance.
Find styles and silhouettes that flatter your current form and actually make you feel good not like you're dressing around something, but dressing for something.
Pour one out for your chest homies, especially if you named them. They would have appreciated the gesture.
Try on a reframe when you're ready: "My baby has better access to hearing my heartbeat now that my boobs fall to the sides when I lie down." Or: "They're perfectly positioned for a child learning to pull themselves up to standing." Absurd? Yes. Oddly comforting? Also yes.
Learn the “bend, lift, & tuck.” Some women swear by the structured bralette as a daily uniform now, not because it solves anything, but because having a new system feels like a sense of ownership.
Invest in a good robe. Not for any practical reason. Just because you deserve one and it covers everything without requiring decisions.
Follow one unhinged postpartum body account on Instagram. The ones where women are just talking about it with zero filter. Community in the outrageous is still community.
Take one photo of yourself not for anyone else, not for posting just to document this version of your body the way you might document your baby. She existed. She did something. She deserves to be witnessed.
Write a letter to your pre-baby body. Thank her for the bikinis, the braless Tuesdays, the years of just being without thinking about it. Closure is real even when it feels silly.
Find one thing your body does now that it couldn't before and let yourself be quietly amazed by it even if it's just that you functioned on three hours of sleep and still kept a human alive.
Talk to someone who won't tell you to just be grateful. The grief and the gratitude can coexist but you deserve space to feel both without feeling invalidated.
If you are located in Florida, California, or Tennessee and are looking for individual support, I would love to work with you. Learn more about therapy services at bethsiller.com.
Not in one of those states? Beth offers virtual workshops and professional trainings available nationwide. Find out more at bethsiller.com.
This post is for informational purposes only and does not constitute therapy or medical advice. Beth P. Siller, LMFT is a licensed therapist, not a physician. Please consult a qualified medical or mental health professional for personalized support.
