In the seventh grade, my best friend whispered to me that I needed a bra. I remember looking down at my chest--or at least where it was supposed to be--and wondering if they made anything small enough.

But, because I wanted to fit in, and mostly because I wanted to be able to show off my white straps in the girls locker room, I begged my mom for one. It was beige, completely uncomfortable, and somehow managed to make me even more flat-chested than I already was.

As if my late blossoming boobs weren't enough to make me feel ostracized, my beautiful blond Swedish mother never ever wore a bra. She'd come get me after school, clad in trendy tops and tight-fitting pants, nipples moving freely beneath her satin or cotton blouses. I was mortified, and swore that I would never ever be so embarrassing.

The years moved ahead, I grew and grew, finally got my period, but my silly womanly curves refused to appear. I even decided to follow Judy Blume's advice and tried all those exercises designed specifically to encourage a young girl's bust to grow.

Nothing worked.

A decade later, my breasts are still the same size they were in my early teens. But now, though I never would have dreamed it then, I love them. They're tiny and perky and deliciously sensitive to weather, my moods, and anyone's touch. They're light on most days, and sometimes with a little "time of the month" help, they make me feel darn right voluptuous. I rarely wear a bra--my mom, it seems, was right all along--and when I do, it's only to accentuate the firm curves that sit beneath my shirt.

It took a while, but I finally made it. I can honestly say I love my breasts. Miranda Rijks, where are you now? I'll bet yours are sagging.

All Personal Breast photos by Robyn Eden.