28/10/2024 - The scars on my chest.

Hello readers,

I've found this article from a year ago in my drafts, and it feels aligned to post it now. All the same subjects that I've been closing here, were surfacing already there. I'm grateful for the journey, and to feel like I'm landing in a place now, I was only envisioning back then.

"I’m in Peru, at Sacsayhuamán, and I feel the urge to write. A woman is singing from the fissure in the rock beside me. Others wander around, touching the walls of this sacred site, feeling the ancient energies that have existed here for thousands of years. On the bus ride here, I had a deep and intimate conversation with a woman, a first meeting that was unexpectedly profound. And now, I want to share the realization I had with you.

It all started this morning at breakfast. I sat at a table with three other women, and the conversation drifted toward plastic surgery. I spoke about when I removed my breast implants, a step towards reconciling with my femininity and embracing my natural state. I shared the journey it took to break free from the conditioning of what an "ideal" woman’s body should be, daring to be “less perfect” than I was with bigger breasts. It was a moment of choosing myself, believing that by doing so, I was aligning a bit more with the woman I aspired to become. I followed a deep urge to let go of what those implants represented: the belief that I wasn’t enough as I was made.

To be completely honest, over the past year, I often found myself thinking about getting implants again. I even visited a surgeon in Geneva and went as far as planning the procedure. But then I had a dream: I was on an operating table in a vast room filled with hundreds of other women undergoing surgery at the same time. I was the only one conscious, witnessing this act of inflicted pain in the name of “beauty.” I ripped off the bandage, removed the implants, shouted, and was struck by a wave of panic. I canceled the surgery the very next day.

Yet, my insecurities are as persistent as I am, and the desire to get them back crept in again. I ignored the dream and started considering it for the beginning of next year. I was still caught in the familiar conflict between wanting to accept myself naturally and believing that I don’t need this to feel complete and love myself, while also gazing at my reflection in the mirror or in a swimsuit, yearning for a look I’d judge “more beautiful”, more perfect.

When the topic of implants came up this morning, I saw it as an invitation to confront the lingering question I’ve been wrestling with. Have I learned the lessons I needed to embrace, to the point where I can now “customize my avatar,” even if it means enduring deep pain, cutting my flesh, and inserting something my body will strive to reject? Or am I ready to accept myself as I am, with my scars and imperfect shapes, even if I sometimes look at them and feel unsatisfied?

On the bus, as I spoke with this woman, I managed to trace back to the root of why I felt the need to change my body in the first place. It stemmed from my mother’s own decision to do the same after my father left her. It was fueled by my father’s hypercritical views of women’s bodies. It was driven by how men seem attracted to the surface and less drawn to the depths I offer. I expressed all of it. I was both the devil and its advocate, switching between perspectives, trying to grasp the core of it all.

And yes, I do love myself, and if it was just me on Earth, I know I’d never consider getting implants again. So, if I’m being honest, it’s about others. But here’s the thing: women have never made me feel uncomfortable about the size of my breasts. I’d feel completely free to be naked around them. In fact, I even received tons of compliments and reassurance after the surgery. So, really, it comes down to men. And this realization triggered me deeply. Me who thought I was done with men's validation, was in fact still deeply insecure about it.

But then, she asked me a question that landed where it needed to: “Would you still consider doing it if the man you love, loved them exactly as they are now" ? I replied with the most blunt and honest “no.” At that moment, it hit me. If a man could see the story behind the scars on my chest—the pain, the liberation, if he could value my bravery and be attracted to what it represents about me, if he could kiss them gently and see beauty in my battle, I’d feel completely and utterly at peace with the way they look.

This conversation revealed a deep belief I’ve carried for too long: I don’t believe a man could truly love me with my pain. And that my scars, the very proof of my struggles, aren’t worthy of love. I’ve felt the need to mask, hide, or correct myself to be loved. But I am so tired of this belief. Today, I choose to rewrite it. I don’t want to attract men who look at my breasts and see imperfections or something to fix. I want a man who will admire, appreciate, and even be turned on by what they represent, the courage I have to embrace myself, scars and all. I am a warrior, and my strength is a testament to the pains I’ve overcome."

Coming back to Louna a year later, here in Spain, having walked across mountains and villages, I can tell the version of me who wrote this that the reassurance she was looking for through the eyes of men has slowly been finding its way back home; inside her. Not through control or pretending not to care, but through softness.

Over this past year, she has been learning to love her body in ways she never thought possible. She has looked at her breasts with kindness, touched her scars with gratitude, and poured love where there used to be shame. They don’t feel like reminders of what was lost anymore, but of everything she has overcome. They feel alive, radiant, completely hers. And somewhere along the way, she stopped waiting for a man to kiss her scars to make her feel beautiful. She started doing it herself.

With love, Loune.