My Breast Implant Story  

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There I was, sitting in an oversized leather examining chair, breathing through the intensifying anxiety bubbling up inside of me. I couldn’t help feeling the contrast between this office visit and the one I’d had nearly two decades before—the one where I’d eagerly parted with four thousand dollars in the hopes of gaining self-love, confidence, and the promise of drama-free swimsuit shopping for the rest of my life.
 

The door swung open, and the doctor stepped in wearing pale blue hospital scrubs with a white lab coat and a gold name badge. After a brief conversation, his assistant, Christine, guided me through the next steps.
 

“Place your shirt and bra on this table, and put this on,” she said, pointing to a plush terry cloth robe hanging on the back of the door.
 

Doctor Pierce and Christine walked out of the room, and I followed the instructions. A few moments later, they both walked back in. As I disrobed, Doctor Pierce placed his hands firmly on my breasts, probing the natural tissue sitting on top of my implants.
 

After a short examination, he looked right into my eyes and said, "I'm going to be honest with you. After the surgery, I’m afraid you'll have virtually no breast tissue left.”
 

"No, no, please don't say that," I pleaded inside of my head. His words confirmed all the fear and dread that had been building inside me. My mind raced, frantically searching for an alternative to this grim outcome. I felt my pulse quicken as the cold, sterile room closed in around me.
 

“Doctor Pierce, is there anything you can do to fix them?"
 

His eyes met mine as I began feeling even more broken. "You will not have enough tissue for a breast lift," he admitted. "And even if you did, your skin is too delicate. You would most likely lose all sensation in your nipples."
 

“Dear God,” I said with a faint trace of hope. “What about a fat transfer?”

He gazed down at my five-foot-eight, one-hundred-twenty-five-pound frame, and the expression on his face said something like, “Honey, that would be like trying to squeeze juice out of a raisin.”
 

I took a deep breath, attempting to steady my nerves that had been dysregulated for so long.

“Really? That’s it?” I said.
 

“This is how it's going to go?”
 

The doctor left the room as I sat there in complete disbelief. Back at the reception area, I tried to regain composure as the staff presented me with the documents and the total cost: Bilateral breast explant and full capsule removal—six thousand, two hundred eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents. The storm billowed up inside of me as I stared at the invoice, and tears welled up in my eyes.
 

I had always prided myself on my resourcefulness—my problem-solving grit that had guided me through every one of life's challenges. But in this situation, reality was crashing down, and I felt as helpless as a one-winged bird.
 

I drove home, pulled into the driveway, walked through the front door, and plopped down on the sofa. That’s when the tears turned into full-blown sobs.

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I remembered when my “will work for boobs” savings account started. Aside from my college classes and the fact that I had a new husband and a small baby to care for, I did every side job I could think of. After years of planning weddings, catering parties, and taking on interior design projects, I finally secured enough funds for the procedure.
 

It was then that I got on my knees, asking God for the big OK—partially knowing that I did want His input, but mostly knowing that either way, my mind was already made up.

And with that, it was goodbye water bras, padded swimsuits, and see ya later to the possibility of a chicken cutlet flopping out of my tank top during kickboxing class.
 

The surgery had gone without a hitch, and in just under two hours, I had boobs! I LOVED them. They filled out beautiful bras and lacy lingerie. And swimsuit shopping? It was just as fun as I imagined. I loved the way I looked in t-shirts and workout clothes. I felt sexy and alive and confident.
 

But now, twenty years later, I was staring into another mirror—this time in my late forties. This time with no Band-Aid, nothing to stop the pain, and nowhere to hide.

Back on the couch, I felt the waves of emotion like a tightness in my chest, gradually building until it was pressing against my heart, making it hard to breathe. It was all so overwhelming, so intense.
 

In agony, I decided to call my sister to see if she could help alleviate my pain. She was a very knowledgeable nurse who had breast implant surgery the minute she could sign her own legal paperwork.

She answered the phone, and I opened up about the series of unfortunate events that unfolded in the doctor’s office earlier that day.
 

I recounted the mysterious ailments that had plagued my body for the past several years. I told her about my hypothyroidism diagnosis and the prescribed medication my thyroid doctor said I’d be taking for the rest of my life.
 

I told her about my persistent hair loss, dry skin, the way I bruised so easily, and my bloodshot eyes. I told her about my severe memory fog, insomnia, sluggish lymphatic system, compromised hormones, and the detection of metals and mold in my body.
 

I shared the challenging journey of combating a severe case of parasites, and how I’d endured a torturous three-month process to naturally eliminate them. I disclosed the outcome of my most recent test that presented markers for Lyme disease and Epstein-Barr.
 

I told her I was eating 95% clean. I told her I’d spent months researching my ailments and had started making all of my own serums, lotions, laundry soap—anything else that would touch my body. I was using castor oil packs, getting colonics, making my own tinctures and teas, taking probiotics for my gut, using grounding mats, and getting lymphatic massages. And none of this was making the symptoms go away.
 

I shared with her the story of the woman who miraculously entered my life and was on a mission to help me gain back my health. Through her knowledge and unwavering persistence, we unveiled a crucial revelation: all of my ailments were linked to a single common denominator—my breast implants were making me sick.
 

My sister listened attentively, and in her supportive role, she tried to console me. She suggested the changes in my body were simply a natural part of aging. She assured me that as we grow older, certain inevitable shifts occur, and our bodies just start breaking-down. At forty-seven, she explained, all of this was a reflection of the natural wear and tear that came with my age.
 

I thanked her for listening, and for her timely advice, and then I hung up the phone. I desperately wanted to believe her. Maybe she was right. Maybe explant surgery wasn't necessary. Perhaps there was another way.
 

For a moment, I imagined a future where I could enjoy a long and vibrant life, graced with full, beautiful breasts. I envisioned the end of my life and my final resting place in a blush pink, velvet-lined casket.
 

There they were—all of my friends and family, celebrating my life, my beauty, and my round, perky chest. But, deep down, my heart knew the truth: there was no way around it. My breast implants had to go.

My funeral would be closed casket, after all.

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Exhausted from the grief and the tears, I said my prayers, settled into bed, and around 3 a.m., I fell asleep.
 

The next morning, I sat up in bed. Starting to feel much more like myself again, I took a big drink of water and felt a surge of energy enter my body—then a series of questions began flooding my mind.
 

How was this all happening for me?
 

Who would I need to be to navigate this situation with self-compassion?

How could I choose to love what is?
 

What might be waiting for me on the other side?
 

I looked upwards, summoning my guides, ancestors, and angels—asking my team for specific assistance—for help.And that’s when the miracles poured in.
 

An “out of the blue” text from a friend I hadn’t spoken to in months about an upcoming women’s embodiment retreat. 

A Facebook group of thousands of supportive women who were going through the same thing I was, and were happy to share answers to my endless questions.

 

I found the Killer Boobies and the Sacred Feminine Mystery School podcasts. I listened to hours of other women's experiences that were very similar to mine. 
 

Through all of my research, reading, listening, and connecting to other women, I knew it was time. Time for me to learn how to do the most radical thing I could think of: begin to understand how to fall in love with my natural body.
 

The day of the surgery came. Although there were nerves—knowing I was going under the knife with seriously compromised health—I felt an unexplainable peace. I knew my body would undergo the operation with ease.
 

After three hours of surgery, the anesthesia wore off and I regained consciousness. I felt a substantial Ace bandage around my chest, accompanied by two plastic tubes protruding just under my breasts, draining excess fluids.
 

As I recovered for the next few days, I read More Than A Body by Lexi and Lindsay Kite. I drank warm bone broth and cold pressed juice. I laid in the grass, went for nature walks, and got lymphatic massages.
 

Soon the anticipated moment arrived when I could finally remove the bandages from my chest. I called my husband into the bathroom. I wanted his support and his presence. He had been my rock—my pillar of strength beyond all comprehension—throughout this entire journey.
 

Layer by layer, we carefully unwrapped the bandages on my chest, revealing what was left of my breasts. My real, natural, authentic breasts.
 

Todd held me close as we both gazed in the mirror, and tears streamed down my face.

The unwrapped bandages revealed a sight that resembled two misshapen, shriveled up prunes smashed up against my chest.
 

Another wave of intense grief washed over me as I stepped into the shower, inhaling and exhaling with slow, deep breaths.
 

“This might be even more difficult than I thought it would be.”
 

But my resolve to heal myself—inside and out—remained strong. Each morning, I woke up, undressed, and sat in front of a full-length mirror. In this consecrated space, I intentionally connected with my divine femininity—beyond the comprehension of labels and society and ego. Beyond the narratives and conditioning that had clouded my mind for so many decades.

In this place, I allowed myself to connect with the pure Godliness that flowed inside of me, guiding me to a deeper understanding of radical self-love and self-acceptance.
 

Inhaling truth, exhaling trauma.

Inhaling golden-white light, exhaling societal expectations.

Over and over again.

One moment. One hour. One day at a time. My appreciation for my body began to grow. I started to see my body not as a physical attribute, but a powerful conduit of creation, attraction, health, and vitality. I began to reverence the choice I made to be a woman on this earth at this time. My body had nurtured and sustained the life of a human. It had walked thousands of miles, competed in triathlons, and played countless hours of classical music on the piano.
 

During this time, I had many realizations around the knowingness that everything is energy—and that energy vibrates at a certain frequency that could actually be scientifically measured. I realized that materials like linen and wool vibrate at 5,000 hertz, and materials like polyester vibrate at less than 100.
 

One quiet morning, I sat in the stillness as a stream of consciousness flowed into my awareness. I’d been housing the most low-vibration, toxic materials in my body for twenty years. I had put them there myself, right next to my heart.
 

Looking back, I had the awareness that my body had been trying to fight them off for years, and with all the added stress piling up in my life, my immune system could no longer keep up.

 

This staggering realization flowed through me—about as subtle as a sledgehammer. I consciously cleared, released, and cleansed any stagnant energy left inside of me, and for the next several hours, I practiced deep self-forgiveness.
 

After three months, I underwent another set of tests—this time, the outcome revealing miraculous unfoldings right before my eyes.
 

My thyroid was working perfectly without any medication. My hormones were in balance. There were no more traces of autoimmune illness in my body. My skin felt hydrated, my eyes bright white. There was no more bruising or major brain fog, and tiny baby hairs were popping up on my scalp.
 

I continued to gain support by reading stories of courageous women who had lived through cancer, serious burns, and other unexpected life-altering changes to their bodies. Each story was a beautiful tribute not only to surviving challenges but thriving in them.

In their willingness to overcome the unthinkable, they had paved the way for me and thousands of other women as well—modeling the way to surrender to challenges that had been given, and showing us the beauty of what is possible within the human soul. They paved the way for me, and deep down, I knew I was paving the way for others.
 

More and more unexpected and miraculous realizations began to manifest. My breasts began to slowly take shape and fill out. I began to experience what post-explant patients refer to as the “fluffing.”
 

As I got more real with myself—like, peeling-off-the-layers, sitting-with-the-discomfort kind of real—I started to notice something beautiful happening: my heart was cracking open in places I didn’t even know had been sealed shut. Especially with my youngest son. I began to feel this unexpected empathy and softness toward him, like my heart remembered how much I loved him and wondered how it ever forgot. I found the guts and, honestly, the grace to apologize—really apologize—not just to him, but to others I’d hurt along the way. It was terrifying and beautiful and awkward and healing, all at once.
 

And, okay, let’s talk about the bedroom—because, yes, that too. Some of the things I thought I’d miss post-implants... well, they weren't missed as much as I thought. 
 

My husband and I started to explore the idea that intimacy had so much less to do with the shape and size of body parts and way more to do with energy, presence, and how deeply we were willing to show up for each other. We didn’t fully understand it yet, but it felt like something was shifting beneath the surface—like God was steadying us, leading us back to something that felt like home—tender, unshakable, and wrapped in the illuminating glow of grace.

Three years ago I couldn't imagine my life without breast implants and today I can't imagine my life with them.  

I struggle to find words for the healing, the self-love, and the miracles that have unfolded since I said yes to myself in such a radical way.

Yes to truth. Yes to health. Yes to wholeness.

 

As I sit here writing this, I’m overcome with reverence for the woman I was, and the woman I’ve become. This version of me…she has found radical love and acceptance for every inch of herself—exactly as she is.

 

It has not been an easy journey. In fact, of all the mountains I’ve climbed, this has been one of the steepest. 

Oh, but the view from here.

 

My skin is glowing. My eyes are bright and clear. My hair has grown back, and then some. And more than anything, I feel at home in my body. I look forward to my morning rituals—Sun-gazing to reset my melatonin and serotonin, Lymphatic movement and flow, sacred time in nature. Ancient herbs from India that nourish my hormones, and soul meditations that restore me at every level.

 

I gaze at my reflection in a full length mirror with reverence. Deep, sacred respect. I no longer chase the world’s definition of beauty. Instead, I honor the incredible way my body has served me—how it continues to miraculously show up for me, every single day.

And now it's time for me to invite other women in.

 

Inside a journey of radical self-love. A sacred space. A container where you feel safe enough to go where you've never gone before.
 

Because this path—while powerful—is not meant to be walked alone. And I am ready. Ready to pour my entire heart and soul into guiding you home.

 

I'm ready to support you in questioning the world’s standards of beauty. To help you release the need to shrink or shape yourself for someone else’s approval. To help you show up in the mirror—with love. With awe. With wild, radiant, acceptance.

 

What if deep beauty had nothing to do with wrinkles, a goal weight, or the size of your bra…and everything to do with the way you know, see, and love yourself?

 

Truth is, the most magnetic, luminous women I’ve ever met weren’t the ones who fit the mold. They were the ones who broke it.  Women who radiate from within. Women who have made peace with their reflection. Who have come alive by remembering the truth of who they are.

 

So, what if it’s your time? What if this is your whisper?

 

If you’ve heard it—that quiet nudge within, know that I see you. I feel you. And I am here for you.

-All my love