They called us “The A Club”. My co-members were two other small-chested 15-year-olds. Some rather bustier friends would line us up, boob-to-boob, and assess who was the smallest. I remember staring in the mirror afterwards, praying they were still growing. Fifteen years later, I know they weren’t.
Aside from their brief but grand adventures into B-cup territory when I breastfed my kids, my boobs have remained the same — small enough that I can get away with wearing a sports bra most of the time and often not big enough to fill out clothes properly.
It took a long time to reach a place of self-love where I’m not ashamed to be part of “The A
