One less Foob, 100x more confidence

It was always there. Every day. Whispering to me.

What, you may well ask? My Foob. Fake boob. The softie prosthetic I got on my first hospital visit after the mastectomy. 

Insert obligatory disclaimer that every one-or-no breasted wonder should do what's right for them. Whatever makes you feel at home in your own skin, is right.

But for me? Wearing the foob was not it. I thought I might want to wear one sometimes. Turns out, wearing it felt about as good as draping cold wet spaghetti on my head (or at least, how I imagine that might feel.) It didn't make me feel less self conscious, or like I could slip out into the world unnoticed.

Not that I've ever been one for going unnoticed.

Instead, it felt worse. Like instead of accepting my body as it is, I was trying to make it look more "acceptable."


I never quite found a home for it (and certainly not in my bra!) It became a drifter, finding its way from chair to sofa to pile of things on the table, getting sat on more than once, and surprising a friend on at least one occasion.

Every time I found it, and thought "I must put this away", I felt a subtle yet powerful wave of sadness. Being one breasted is unfortunate in some ways, but ultimately a blessing. It means I survived.

But the foob? Nah, that made me feel hollow inside. Like instead of my once magnificent breast (44 H people, I was blessed), I had a small, sad sofa pillow.

It felt like it was judging me, too. OK, I realise I was judging myself, but just give me this dramatic moment ;). But seriously, it felt like a constant reminder that I "should" wear it. That this is what we do after mastectomies. We cover it over and go out into the world looking "normal."

Except it didn't make me feel normal. It's not like I put it on and it magically morphed into a matching breast for my remaining one! It looked like I had one normal breast and one strange, slightly pointy, one that was a totally different shape. And had no weight. And didn't move at all, except for trying to levitate slowly from its moorings and out my neckline.

I did consider trying a beanie or silicon one, for more weight and a better shape, but I finally decided against it. Why? Because even that was still coming from a sense that I "should." That it was the "done thing."

So one day, as Storm and I were decluttering (Marie Kondo would be proud) I decided that actually, this foob did not spark joy. And so I threw it and the spare stuffing that came with it, in the bin. I won't lie, I did have a moment of "holy shit, now I can't hide being asymmetric, even if I want to!" But once that initial moment of WTF-ery passed, something strange happened.

My confidence skyrocketed. Up until that moment, I'd been going out wearing a cross body bag, and resting my arm on the bag, to hide the left side of my chest a little. The very next time I left the house without it, I found myself walking taller, with both arms relaxed by my sides. 

For some people a foob means freedom. And that's perfect and beautiful. But for me, it was a nagging, accusatory thing that made me feel I had to hide. Now it's gone, and hiding is no longer an option, which frees me to step out boldly exactly as I am.


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