As a child I used to look at Disney Princesses and looked forward to having a Prince, a castle, and a noticeable bosom. Sadly enough, I couldn’t even check the one realistically attainable thing off that list.

I saw all of the other girls developing, and I couldn’t wait to get my very own pair! The grass is always greener on the other side, I suppose. And to continue with that metaphor: my grass wasn’t growing at all. I was a smart kid, but even if I wasn’t, I’d probably have figured out that I was maxing out early. I topped out at a 32A.

Having larger breasts was important to me. Maybe it’s because our society loves boobs and women’s sexuality is pushed on them at a young age. Barbies have boobs. Celebrities have boobs. Even Lizzie McGuire grew boobs, which is probably why I wasn’t allowed to watch Lizzie McGuire. And there’s the fact that my 3 year old cousin asked me “Where are they?” while looking at my chest. Thanks, kid.

Unrealistic standards for a middle school graduate, Lizzie.

Let me take you back to my early teen years: T9 was still a thing. I was the only girl without side bangs. Cargo shorts were in. It was a rough time.

I’ll always remember the one guy whose comment changed everything. Before, I thought I was the one who wanted breasts, but nobody else minded. Apparently, I was wrong. This douche canoe tells me, and I remember these words clearly, “It looks like the only things on your chest are two mosquito bites.”

I didn’t even understand the insult for a couple of minutes. This was obvious sexual harassment, but he got a lot of laughs from his friends, so I guess it was worth it. At least I was a nicer girl then. If it had happened today, Douche canoe would be grabbing his shins in pain and I’d be on my way to the principal’s office.

And that’s the problem with society. Boys would talk about girls’ bodies nonchalantly. Specifically breasts. Made fun of the girl with huge ones. Made fun of the girls with small ones. Complimented the ones with boobs that were just right. But who were they to make those comments? Who were they to judge our breasts when their voices were still cracking and they could barely grow more than a patchy mustache?

How could anybody make fun of this?

Boys continued to make comments throughout high school as well. A couple jokes (“Asians have As in everything”) as well as comments about how great other girls’ chests were. I wondered if I was unattractive because of my lack of breasts. In actuality, I was unattractive for unrelated reasons, such as my questionable choices in glasses and my affinity for Skechers.

My mother spent my formative years lying to me for my own benefit. Carrots would help me see in the dark. Sitting close to the TV would make me go blind. Eventually my boobs would get bigger. At some point I caught on. I’m adopted, but I look a lot like my mother except she’s white and I’m Asian and she’s got a huge rack and I’m flatty flat flat. I think she took pity on me, which is why she funded my very expensive Bombshell Bra phase. If you’re unfamiliar with that term, it’s the bra that’s supposed to create the appearance of larger breasts by filling the cup with more padding than boob. Bombshell bra will make my boobs look three times as big? Jokes on you, Bombshell Bra, because three times zero is still zero.

But the bra worked! I magically had the appearance of breasts. I was strategic, too. Whipped these babies out during the summer. So instead of everyone thinking “Did she stuff her bra?” people would think, “She finally filled out after the summer!” And I felt good. Breasts gave me POWER! Completely fabricated and delusional POWER! See ya later, suckers!

And of course I’ve already heard about all of the advantages of smaller breasts. My well-endowed friends would say, “Oh, but you’re lucky!” and talk about running and bruising their eyes (at least sports bras don’t make them look pre-pubescent) or how clothes didn’t fit right. But guess who was getting ogled at the pool? Not me! I wanted to get ogled, too! Sure, good guys won’t mind my small breast size. But how would I even meet a good guy when he’s busy ogling?

Eventually I realized that nothing had changed. My breasts were still called small. When I looked in the mirror, my Bombshell Bras reminded me of what I didn’t have. I heard guys refer to push-up bras as “letdown bras” and compared them to bags of Lays potato chips--half empty. Just like my glass of self esteem.

My cup dost not runneth over.

I didn’t write this to whine about my little breasts or talk about my inspirational realization that their size isn’t important. I want to point out the social attitudes that inspired the Bombshell abomination. There are hundreds of other girls in the same boat as me. All girls will feel objectified at some point in their lives. I was made fun of for having small ones. At the same time, the girls with large breasts were harassed and catcalled. There seemed to be no winning with these young men. If they were large, they had to be round and defy gravity as well. If people would stop attacking others for things over which they had no control, teen angst could be at an all time low.

At some point I realized a few important points that got me off of my push-up bra crack. Having to fake larger breasts wasn’t making me feel more confident. Anyone worth having in your life will not care what size bra you wear, and by hiding behind a push-up bra, I’m only feeding the societal idea that bigger is better.

In order to change society, we must first look at ourselves. Everyone who gets implants or push-up bras because they want to fit in makes it harder and harder for anybody to resist that current. I had to accept my breasts and do so with pride. When I entered college, I did so without a Bombshell Bra and it has given me more confidence than the push-up bra ever did.

So that’s it then: I’m the President, Vice President, and Corresponding Secretary of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. And I’m proud.