Ever since the development of my breasts, my identity and self-worth have been attached to them.

As a preteen, I was often sexualized/fetishized because of their size.

I came to be known as “Mariah with the big boobs,” and at first, I was incredibly embarrassed and insecure about the large mounds of fat on my chest, not wanting to draw attention to them.

Society has warped our ideas of beauty, and I soon realized people would solely pay attention to me due to my breasts, and that hurt. Then there were moments I was harassed by others who would make remarks about how I only had big breasts due to being fat after I had rejected their advances.

However, once I realized this part of my body was permanent (or so I thought at the time), I convinced myself to find my identity in them. I began to embrace my breasts, taking my nickname in stride.

Then I tried to find my worth: I began to like some of the attention my breasts would receive, persuading myself that the compliments about my breasts were compliments to me as a person in general.

But they weren’t.

This created an internal conflict wherein I had a love/hate relationship with my breasts.

As time progressed and gravity took over, I became more insecure.

In hopes of gaining confidence, I adorned my breasts with piercings, and like all shiny new objects. These piercings made me feel content for a while. But those piercings would not heal due to constant infection, which is how I discovered the lump in my right breast.

This is where my journey with breast cancer began.

After having a lumpectomy and then, chemo, I was told that having mastectomies of both breasts was the best option for me.

This may seem superficial, but I was devastated. I was becoming completely unrecognizable to myself.

Body dysmorphia was in full gear due to hair loss and other drastic body changes.

Now, I had to say goodbye to my breasts.

I quickly fell into depression, but could not linger there for long because I had a choice to make. I chose to have the mastectomy procedure with tissue expanders inserted.

Waking up after the operation I felt different.

No longer the same person, I felt like an experiment, more so than I had felt with chemo. My breasts were replaced with these odd-shaped hard shells and I had these grotesque stitches all over my chest and sides.

Over the next few months, I would visit my plastic surgeon weekly to fill the expanders with saline. My plastic surgeon and I would have discussions about my desired size of implants.

At first, I wanted to be the exact same size as I was before. I thought being the same size would assure me that having my real breasts removed was not that big of a deal, allowing me to better cope with the transition.

However, it was recommended to go smaller due to the potential back pain associated with enormous implants. When I was at my desired size, it was time to have the exchange surgery where the tissue expanders were replaced by saline implants.

Once I took the surgical bra off a few days later, I saw the “finished” product.

My new breasts were not like my old breasts: no nipples nor areolas, with scars on both breasts that extended to my sides, under my armpits.

I looked like a Frankenstein Barbie.

The new fake breasts, “foobies,” just reached their first birthday in July and overall, it has been a process. When one battles breast cancer, many decisions must be made quickly to aid with the chances of survival.

Thus, my mind never caught up with the physical changes occurring. As soon as I was diagnosed with cancer, I had it removed. As soon as the tumor was removed, I had to go through chemo. As soon as chemo was completed, I had to get my double mastectomy. And as soon as I completed reconstruction, “normal” life started again.

But what is “normal” after battling breast cancer?

Sometimes I take glances at my body and I am okay with what I see, embracing its new form.

Other times, I linger in front of the mirror, analyzing every scar from the incisions, becoming disgusted at the disfiguration.

These mounds on my chests are no longer made of fat, but of liquid that morphs into weird shapes as I lay in bed. I no longer have to wear a bra for support, which has been nice. But I do not have any sensation in my breasts, except by my armpits. I have the desire to engage in sexual relations with others, but I do not because I am no longer comfortable.

Currently, I am trying to process my emotions regarding my experience.

It is interesting to me that although I am no longer called “Mariah with the big boobs,” I am now known as “Mariah who had breast cancer.”

Both monikers are attached to my breasts and both deal with my body image.

In a perfect world, I would be Mariah, a person that is not identified by her breasts.

However, I do not see that happening; therefore, I have to find acceptance and embrace it all.

I just hope my mind will catch up with this body and together, they can work in the rediscovery of my worth as a person, not as body parts.