We teach girls to hate their bodies. Then we sell them the fix. Part one.
I was eleven years old when America’s Next Top Model started airing- but as much as I’d like to blame that for the start of my journey into beauty culture hell, the truth is that I’d already been walking that road for a while.
As a baby, my family’s ‘loving’ nickname for me was sumo baby- because I was a cute little chubster and loved to eat. By the time I entered kindergarten the weight dropped off, but I was faced with a whole other battle: childhood bullying.
Needless to say, growing up over the years, nicknames seemed to follow me. Four eyes. Geek. Nerd. Blondie. Looking back, none of them seem too serious. But as a child between the ages of 5-10, I guess you could say they probably laid the foundation of hatred for my body.
By the time I approached junior high, I was accustomed to comments about my appearance- and as a shy, awkward teenager with braces, round purple harry-potter glasses, and actual headgear (yes, the kind that go outside and around your neck)… I lacked all of the confidence that I seen on the ‘big screen’ watching ANTM.
While those girls were getting full makeovers and being called beautiful, I was getting called thunder thighs and being accused of taking the ‘bit’ out of the horses mouth.
Not exactly the same.
The truth is that I looked up to those girls, to Tyra Banks, to what ‘model’ life represented- and it began to pave a very specific path subconsciously for me in regards to what I needed to look like in order to be loved.
A couple of months ago I had an opportunity to watch the new docu-series “Reality Check: Inside America's Next Top Model” on Netflix, and it left a sour taste in my mouth that I haven’t been able to wash out since.
What I saw in those clips that were played back no longer represented beauty, allure and confidence- instead, all I could see were eating disorders, low self-esteem, and the glamourization of unrealistic standards.
I didn’t just feel sorry for the girls on the screen- suddenly I felt very sorry for the little girl inside of me who fell for it too.
The one who was taught to hate her body.
The one who was taught to put her worth in how she looked.
The one who spent thousands of dollars to alter her body just so she could feel loved.
After the braces and headgear came off, I switched to contacts, got a new hairstyle and started dressing differently. By the time I entered high school, I had started to experiment with modeling- and although it was determined that I was too short for the runway (5’5”), I purchased some 6 inch heels and tried it anyway.
I dabbled in portraits, small-scale fashion weeks and club-oriented runway shows (the kind that took place in questionable environments with even more questionable people), doing my best to gain confidence and achieve what I had seen on TV.
It wasn’t until my early adult years that I was presented with a ‘big opportunity’- and that’s where everything shifted tremendously for me.
The year was 2014, and I was preparing for the Miss Universe Canada competition in May of 2015. This was my second attempt at the competition- and this time?
I was getting serious. I hired a runway coach, a fitness trainer and nutritionist- I took lessons, worked out hard 6x days a week, and restricted my diet. I insisted on doing everything I could, because I really felt in my bones that it was going to be my year.
About 6 months out from the competition, I began watching reruns of previous competitions to get a sense of the style, presence and ‘beauty standards’ that typically placed top five and/or won the title.
I had felt confident in my walk. I had generous sponsors lined up for my gowns. I had never been in better shape in my life- and yet… something felt like it was missing.
It didn’t take me long to realize that those girls on tv, the ones that were winning ever single year? They had something that I didn’t- and that was big boobs.
I’d been flat-chested all my life, and I hated it.
It always bothered me how small my breasts were, the way my ribcage stuck out so far, and the tom-boy feeling it gave me because of it. I remember spending my childhood pretending that I had boobs by wearing thicker bras with lots of padding, sometimes two, and even stuffing with kleenex.
→ A memory from one of my favourite movies (Blended with Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore) comes to mind as I think about the scene where ‘Hilary’ (the eldest daughter) is caught by ‘Jim’ attempting to stuff her bra with gel insoles and it flies out, sticking to the mirror. Embarrassment level 10/10 for admitting this out loud 😂
The truth is that I didn’t feel feminine. I didn’t feel beautiful. I certainly didn’t love myself or how I looked. And if ‘I’ couldn’t love myself… well, who possibly could?
Immediately, I began looking up surgeons in my area to schedule a breast augmentation because I now felt like I didn’t have a shot in hell to win without them.
Luckily for me (or so I thought at the time), I was able to schedule a few consultations right away, and I started to narrow down my search of which surgeon I was going to go with. After a couple quick conversations, trying on different implant sizes, and looking at available surgical dates- I’d picked my surgeon and settled on a surgery window just one month before my competition.
Fast? Yes. Crazy? Probably. Delusional? Most certainly.
Now, a shocking revelation to me in preparation for this essay, was the realization that my obsession with having big boobs actually wasn’t a struggle that I alone faced.
As it turns out- there are thousands of young girls across the planet who are also being inundated with the same media influences and societal programming, teaching them that they too, are not worthy unless they have a nice set of boobs.
Looking back, I do believe 22 years of age was much too young to make the decision to permanently alter my body- so imagine my surprise when I found out that breast augmentation is regularly being done on adolescent girls.
Not just one or two, but thousands every year.
This study from 2013 was already recording the incidences of breast augmentations on young girls, going all the way back until the early 2000’s. In 2011 alone (we’re talking 15 years ago), adolescents under 18 years of age accounted for 1.5% of all implants inserted per year.
That’s 4,830 procedures in just one year, in the USA alone.
Can we even begin to imagine how that has escalated over the years or what those numbers would be if we factored in EVERY country around the world?
I would have loved to gather some data on Canada (where I live), but there’s a reason why this information is not available, and we’re going to cover that in this series.
My now-husband Charles (who was only my BF at the time), tried to convince me not to go ahead with the surgery. He loved my body as it was, loved me as I was- and honestly looking back, I wish I would have paid a little more attention to that.
But, I was set in my ways and had two decades of teachings that all told me that my body and how I looked was what mattered- so I’d be dammed if a small chest was going to be my only reason for losing.
Thus, I proceeded forward with my decision, and the initial surgery date went off without a hitch. I officially was part of the ‘big bust’ club- and I was in LOVE with how I looked. It was new, different, exciting.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a feminine woman.
In the weeks that followed, I became obsessed with the competition and how I looked. Although I wasn’t permitted to lift anything over five pounds- my fitness trainer and I continued to work out 6x days per week, focusing our attention on the lower half of my body.
I thought I was doing the right thing. The best thing. But what happened next has stuck with me so clearly over the last 11 years- I still remember it like it was yesterday.
I was 9 days out from the competition, which would require me to fly 6 hours away to Ontario, Canada- where the week-long event was taking place.
I had just finished a busy day shopping at the mall, getting some last minute items I deemed as crucial for my trip and my presence on stage.
When I got home later that morning, I started to have a lot of pain on the right side of my chest. Nothing sharp, but tense. It felt like I had worked out really hard and the muscles were recovering- which was weird to me, because I had been following the rules and not lifting more than 5 pounds.
I took off my shirt and I noticed that my incision, closed but not yet healed, was extremely red and seeping a little bit.
Again, weird.
→ Now at this point, it’s important to interject and state that during this time, I was working as a bedside nurse at the hospital. I knew the signs of a problem… but as the saying goes, nurses are the worst patients. So, I tried to slough off the signs that I was seeing.
“I was carrying a lot at the mall”, “I probably overdid it on cleaning the house”, “if I just sit down and rest for a little bit, I’ll likely feel a lot better”- you know, the works.
But still… there was a little voice in the back of my mind that didn’t stop talking- and it convinced me to connect with my surgeon’s office and let him know what was going on. Call it intuition or whatever you want- but I am thankful everyday for that voice.
I emailed my surgeons office, letting them know what was going on and what I was seeing- but also making sure to say ‘don’t worry, I did a lot, it’s probably nothing’.
The assistant to my surgeon emailed me right back asking for pictures of my breast and incision. Again I thought… weird… but okay. And I sent them along.
3 minutes later my phone rings- and it’s my surgeon.
He informs me to stop eating or drinking- and to come in to the surgical suite right now, because I need to have emergency surgery.
In shock, I called Charles at work. I remember having to page him because they don’t have their cellphones on them. He worked at a coal-fired powerplant and it was loud in the background, so I had to yell that I needed him to come home.
It was a 45 minute drive for him to get here, and then another hour drive for us to get into the city. And as soon as we arrived, my surgeon came in to talk to me.
He explained that what he’s seeing is a clear sign of infection, and the only way for him to know how bad it is, is to get inside and see for himself.
So, worst case scenario?
The implant would need to be removed, cleaned up and put back in- and I might need to be on IV antibiotics for one week.
One week. In my head I was doing the math. I could still make the competition.
But alas, that wasn’t the case.
I woke up in the recovery room groggy and nauseous.
Standing over my bed was my surgeon, and he had a grim look on his face. He said “Listen, there’s no other way to say this… the infection was too bad- we had to take the implants out”.
For the second time in one day, I sat there in shock. Disbelief. Was I still under anesthetic and was I dreaming? This wasn’t even discussed as a worse-case scenario!
Turns out it wasn’t a dream, and it was very much real.
Apparently five minutes after putting me under, the surgeon went back out to the waiting room where Charles was and said to him “I have to take the implant out. What do you want me to do with the other one?”
My boyfriend making a decision on my health and my body that we hadn’t even remotely discussed the possibility of- one that I would ultimately have zero say in.
Thankfully, he made the right decision and had the other implant removed alongside of the infected one- which would need to remain out for three months before it could be put back in.
You know those moments looking back where you can clearly see that life was throwing you a rock, trying to get your attention, warning you to slow down and maybe do something different?
I can see that this moment wasn’t just a rock- it was a boulder. But it was a boulder that I ignored, because I was so certain implants were the ticket to loving myself more.
So of course, I’d choose to get them put back in.
With my surgeon standing over my bed, I was being informed that I will now be on IV anti-biotics 3x per day, for at least 10 days. They’ve taken a swab of my infected site, and they will know within a week what type of infection I have.
So basically, in simple terms… the competition? No longer possible.
In a matter of less than 12 hours I went from purchasing the remainder of items for my trip, to having my whole life turned upside down.
That afternoon I went home, and despite my surgeon’s warning not to, I unbandaged my chest and looked at what was left. Charles was in the other room and heard me scream, and when he came barreling in, he found me crying on the floor, begging him to look away.
Two little flapjacks hanging off my chest was all that was left.
The very thing that I paid thousands of dollars for, that I was told would help me love my body and myself- resulted in me hating the way I looked even more.
To be continued. Liked what you’ve read so far? Join me for the next part of this essay.
Coming in Part Two:
→ What came next for the competition, my self-love wound, and my connection to myself/my body.
→ The toxic impacts of breast implants that aren’t discussed prior to surgery, and why Canada is one of the most dangerous places to get a breast augmentation done.
→ How my initial surgery turned into SEVEN surgeries and years of breast implant illness before I finally got an explant.
→ What this journey has taught me about the beauty industry and why we need to finally break free from it for good.
→ Why a decision made in hatred will never make you happy, especially when it comes to permanently altering your body.
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About the Author:
Hey there! I’m Brianne, the messy human behind love, sunday. I’m a full-time writer, speaker, and host of the Go Regulate Yourself podcast. Born and raised a small-town Alberta girl, I now spend six months a year travelling the globe in search of a slower, softer way of living.
Here, I write about romanticizing each day, how to become the main character of your life, what living out of a suitcase is teaching me, and all the ways to create a life more magical and delicious than your wildest dreams.
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