She was thirteen when the white school shirt started telling stories she didn’t want to hear. Her elder sister’s Kurta/top fit just right; she, meanwhile, learned to tug the dupatta a little higher and laugh it off.
At sixteen, for the farewell, she borrowed a heavily padded bra and kept spare foam inserts in her sling bag “just in case.” The mirror gave her angles; the camera gave her away.
College brought confidence with footnotes. She discovered tape, blouses with clever pleats, and the art of crossing arms in photos. Someone once joked “ironing board,” and she laughed louder than everyone so the word wouldn’t stick.
At a cousin’s wedding, the tailor murmured, “Thoda padding de doon?” as if it were kindness. She nodded—grateful and a little gutted.Advice came from everywhere. Ma said, “It’ll come, beta—badam, ghee, haldi-doodh.”
Friends added, “After marriage,” and later, “After baby.” She did it all. Life moved, she became a woman with agency and opinions and a career she was proud of—but her blouses still needed engineering.
In fitting rooms and at parties, she caught herself scanning other women’s necklines and feeling a small, sour jealousy she didn’t like admitting. Not because she wanted attention—because she wanted proportion. She wanted clothes to sit the way they did in her head. She wanted to retire the stash of bra pads hidden in drawers and handbags.
The turning point wasn’t dramatic.
Just a quiet consultation where no one promised miracles and no one tried to sell a fantasy. They spoke about choices like they were normal—because they are. That modern breast implants can be subtle, soft, and tailored to her frame. That there are shapes and profiles that whisper, not shout. That safety is protocol—precise sizing, sterile technique, meticulous planning, honest recovery. That wanting this isn’t a failure of self-acceptance; it can be an act of self-kindness.
Holding a sizer—light, curved, surprisingly ordinary—something inside unclenched. She didn’t want “big.” She wanted “hers.” A quiet, proportionate change that made a saree blouse sit without padding. A T-shirt that didn’t need strategy. Holiday photos uncropped at the collarbone.
If you recognise yourself in her, you are not vain or shallow. You’re allowed to want ease in your own skin.
When you’re ready, come talk—privately, gently. No pressure, no pitch. Just clear information, and a plan if you choose it. If you leave with nothing but answers, that’s a win. If you leave with a little more courage, even better.