The post that got deleted (When boobs become saggy)

I was surprised to see how many of you could relate to the post that was just live for about 5hours until I deleted it.

Why did I delete it?

Well, some of the family I mention in there felt that I should have contacted them first, even if the post was showing them in a positive light.

So, I deleted the post because they were right.

But not to worry, I’ve written a similar post about a year ago and thought I’d post it here for you. I speak about the same things etc.I have changed a lot since that post, but I kept it exactly the same.

Hope this makes up for the deleted post 🙂

Let’s get into it!

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As I’m busy drying my hair,  the thought comes to mind ” I love being a woman”.

What seemed to be a simple sentence took my brain on a little journey.  As I was drying my hair,  my brain- and heart picked apart the reasons why I love being a woman.

First,  let me put this sentence into context.  Growing up I have always admired men.  Not in a ‘sexual’ sense”.  My father was my rolmodel since I was a child and even being 24years old and a little less naive,  he is still my rolmodel today.  Second on the list is my brother.  It is not that I had a sortage of women,  in contrary,  we have 7 times more females then men in my surroundings.

My favourite philosophers are Plato,  Aristotle,  Alexander the great.  Ever since childhood I was deeply into their work.  Reflecting on it.  Agreed or disagreed.  Making arguments in my head.  But when all is done, I always left with an admiration for their work.

While studying the bible men like David,  Gideon and Joshua had my fascination. Mighty men of valor. Men of war.  Men of blood.

Even the gangsters around here.  I grew up with most of them.  And I remember who they were before they became the town’s most feared.  I remember that they would teach me how to build a pushing car cart with wood and random weels that we found in the field. I remember how they will climb the highest trees to get my kitten out of the tree.  I remember when I accidentally fell in the community swimming pool that Roy jumped in to get my out,  eventhough he couldn’t swim and I was the one getting private swimming lessons.  I don’t admire them now for being gangsters,  but I don’t judge as well.  If there is one drug I could banish from our streets in South Africa, it is would be crystal meth.

At 18 I moved out of the house and lived on my own.  For the past 6years I’ve been priding myself in learning from my dad how to fix lights, random TV problems, how to change a tire and things that men do.

But being a woman never dawned on me.  Was I trying to be a man?  Mmm,  I don’t know.  However,  if so,  it would be extremely funny as I’m a girly girl. All my mannerisms and behaviour are feminine.

I didn’t know I was really a girly girl,  until I examined myself.  I love curls in my hair,  I love lipstick,  Elle and Vogue Magazine,  lace dresses and  white and pink pearls. Seems like everyone around me knew this, but me.

And now today,  we were shooting some pictures for my online boutique.  I had a  black leotard on. I feel like the last time I checked my body was when I was 18 years old.  Boobs B cup,  firm,  flat stomach,  slim thighs.  No stretch marks or cellulite. 👍 Over the past 6years my body has changed but somehow I still had the mental image that I had my body of 18 years old.

You might think how could this be, don’t I shower and see myself?  Yes, I do.  Mostly I take a bath.  Laying down in the bath makes the stomach look flatter and somehow water makes everything look better.  I’m always in a hurry when I get out of the bath,  don’t really look myself up and down in the mirror.

Today was my first shoot in front of strangers.  I have a leotard on. Events leading up to putting this leotard on included starring at myself naked in the mirror.

Wow! Hello Chantal.

I looked at my shape.  My breast have grown.  C cup.  Not that perky anymore. I definitely need a bra now.   I have hips now.  I am no longer one straight line.  My thighs are also more curvy. A few baby stretch marks and a lil cellulite.

And I fell in love with my body.

With being a woman.

With the way God created us.

We are designed with breasts,  to nurture and feed our children.

We have hips to carry our babies.

Our brains are wired emotionally.  Some days we cry at silly things and if you ask us ‘What’s wrong? ‘  we’ll say ‘I don’t know’. (We must came across very mysterious to men lol)

Today was a good day.  I figured out a few things:

1. The reason why the bottom part of the breast hangs out of the bra,  it’s simply because I went one size up.

2. I love being a women.

Many of my friends have breast cancer,  and some had to remove their breasts. Some of my friends struggle with obesity. I know many mothers. I know some people reading this are 83 years old (hey grandma) and thinking ‘You don’t even know yet what awaits you) and my point in writing this is not to say I have a awful body.  I know I’m blessed to have a very nice body.  It’s not just in my genes though,  I exercise.  But that’s beyond the point.  My point is, this might not be the rest of the world’s body,  but it is my body and my story.

What is your story?

Also,  I’m a relational Christian. Showing my butt on my blog is probably not the most Christian thing to do. Oh well.  There it is.  The picture didn’t just trip and fell on my blog.  I purposefully clicked on upload.  I’m done being shamed with bible verses.  I’m embracing my butt,  my boobs,  stretch marks and cellulite.  #freethenipple Okay,  I will never show my nipple but you get the point 🙂

Here is a quote from a poem I like by Maya Angelou “Still I rise”

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

But still, I rise.

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