I Almost Got Breast Implants

A Close Call with Self-Loathing

Once upon a time I nearly got breast implants. 

It was 2005. I was 24 years old, and I had recently left an abusive relationship (mutually abusive, in many respects, as is almost always the case—there was victimization, yes, and I was playing the victim, yes, but ultimately, that wasn’t a game I was interested in perpetuating or a role I wanted to occupy long-term, which I proved by leaving, thankfully).

In one of our last vicious fights, my ex, in the way that only a person who has had the opportunity to learn another’s deepest weaknesses and blind spots, went in for the kill:

“By the way, good luck finding anyone interested in sleeping with you—your body is used up and your tits are nonexistent—useless, really.”

I have always thought of myself as a fundamentally confident, self-contained individual. Even in my twenties, I considered myself to be someone who isn’t easily swayed by the opinions of others, but this obviously wasn’t true—and really, I’m not sure if this is really ever true for anyone—not completely, in any case.

We are all human beings after all, fallible and impressionable and no choice occurs in a vacuum. 

Every decision we make is shaped by the world around us, our family story, our context, our commitments, etc. And yet ultimately, I do believe in free will. The fact that our choices can be (or even that they often are) shaped and engineered by either benevolent or nefarious forces, does not, I don’t think, negate the greatest gift we have been bestowed by God, of choice.

In fact, the paradoxical nature of choice, power, and agency (in so many directions) only makes it that much more potent, in my view. 

In any case, those terrible words on the part of my soon-to-be ex pressed right into one of my sorest bruises and deepest insecurities—the poor guy.

He wasn’t an evil person, and I’m sure I said far worse to him (I can, to my shame, be a master of cruelty—I have yet to encounter anyone else who even comes close to challenging my capacity to cut someone down verbally, a fact that I *was* immensely proud of, for years, but which I now recognize is not quite the crowning glory I once believed it to be).

But at the time, I chose to be deeply hurt, to take on the delectable pleasure of feeling outraged and damaged by his words, which became the unconscious justification for the near-maiming of my body.

When I received that insurance payout after I somehow survived the totalling of my little green Toyota Echo by a careless highway driver, I couldn’t imagine a more reasonable or responsible way to spend the astronomical sum of $10,000 than on a pair of fake breasts for the new, authentic life that lay ahead of me. 

This is how I ended up sitting on a metal table with my legs dangling like a little girl’s, in a chilly, sterile, yet well-appointed examination room.

When the middle-aged man—a complete stranger—entered and requested that I take my shirt off, I actually obeyed.

He proceeded to finger and fondle my breasts dispassionately, assessing my flesh as though I were a piece of livestock, while I sat there in mute submission. Then he took out his purple sharpie, and drew dotted lines on my skin to demarcate the places where he would cut my frozen body open with a scalpel, and stuff it like a trophy, to make it more beautiful, more appealing, more correct. 

I don’t remember the plastic surgeon’s specific words, but I remember the cadence of rationality and aspiration—this was a process of transformation; an “opportunity,” as well as being nothing drastic at all. 

It was a simple, sound improvement—and a life-changing one, no less; a choice any sane young woman in my position (ie: suffering from an evident deformity) would take. This good doctor was going to finally make me worthy, by giving me breasts with lift, volume, and bounce. It was basically a haircut. Just a little slice right here, and we’ll slip in the saline—it’s just salt water, the stuff of life! No big deal, really, but also, this would mean that at long last, I would finally be whole; complete. 

I realize now, looking back, that I was in a state of dissociation during that appointment. I was mesmerized; hypnotized. Sure, this doctor stood to make several grand for a few hours’ “work,” …but I had called to make the appointment. And I had showed up on time. I had willingly paid for the privilege of this humiliating, debasing “consultation.” 

This is what it was to be an “empowered” young woman. 

Even then, however, I don’t think I ever could have—or would have—claimed, like so many women do, after having subjected themselves to mutilation for the sake of so-called “beauty”, that I was “just doing it for myself.” Even then, I was at least aware that this was unequivocal self-harm: yet another act among the litany of ways I had punished myself up to that point.

The most shocking and profoundly sad (and in many ways, shameful) aspect of this whole episode, in retrospect, is that I was a mother at the time. Not only that, I was a woman who had experienced the stunning power of liberated birth. At that point, I had two children already—children I had given birth to at home, wildly. 

Most tragic of all, I had nourished those children with my miraculous, perfect breasts.

It is insane to me now, to reflect upon the fact that I actually used motherhood to rationalize to myself the frankenstinian procedure of being taxidermied-alive. I wouldn’t be having any more kids, of course (lol) and so given that I was done breastfeeding, why not get a “mommy makeover?” 

Like many young women, I was enmired in so many layers of self-loathing that even the healing balm of sovereign birth couldn’t dislodge the disgust I had for myself. (This is why, when I discuss my life at that time, I usually describe myself as having “almost entirely extricated myself from the medical industrial complex”— because it’s a little bit convoluted to have to explain that while I was indeed done visiting doctors under the delusional belief that they could support my health… I hadn’t quite disavowed the death-culture, clearly.)

This is the primary reason I feel authorized (and inspired) to comment so publicly and brazenly (as I tend to do) on the combined vanity, narcissism, and self-hatred involved in the growing phenomenon of cyborgicity, body modification and the increasing normalization of plastic surgery: I understand very well why people do these things to themselves. And I am not above it.

I’m not above the temptation, I’m not above the slide into self-obsession—though what I know now, is that narcissism and vanity are self-hatred, and that true self-worth and self-love can never be destructive of the body.

Yet I am surrounded by women—here, even in my close-knit little so-called “expat” circles in Nicaragua—whose faces are waxy, smooth, and impassive thanks to the botulism toxin they have had injected into the muscles that allow us to express emotion, and in the local mommy Facebook group, the monthly visit from the plastic surgeon who sets up her pop-up clinic in San Juan del Sur, is a hugely popular event. Women routinely discuss their upcoming plastic surgery appointments publicly with what comes across to me as a somewhat determined cheerfulness, but not without a hint of what seems to me to be defiance, perhaps in a subconscious effort to convince themselves, as well as their Facebook friends, that this is all fine, and normal, and nothing to even question.

But it’s not fine, or normal, or unquestionable to pay strangers to damage or impair our otherwise healthy body parts or organs. And I don’t mind being the person to say so out loud.

This does not mean that I believe that those of us who choose to have these things done to ourselves are bad, or wrong, or that anyone (including myself) has a right to project any form of moralization or judgement against individuals who take this path. 

But we do have, I think, an obligation to ponder what all of this means, for ourselves, our own personal dignity, our relationship with all of creation, and for the future of humanity (and our children). 

I see many of the invasive medical procedures that we undertake as a matter of course, as occupying the same continuum of biological vandalism, along with plastic surgery.

The insertion of metal instruments into the uterus (called an “IUD”) to prevent pregnancy is one example—and…yes of course, lodging a foreign object into our most sacred wombspace will likely prohibit fertility, though on the other hand, life is so irrepressible that often these devices “fail”, and occasionally babies are conceived, miraculously, in spite of this form of overt, macabre sabotage. 

Similarly, the grim choice that many men make to neuter themselves is another example of the careless desecration of the body.

Severing the conduit that moves the most potent form of life-force energy—sperm— through a man’s physiological system is, to my mind, an undeniable act of self-loathing and obliteration; a direct expression of one’s sense of impotence—literally, sexually, and in every way.

The idea that anyone could believe that cauterizing the vas deferens and stopping the flow of sperm could possibly not effect the overall function of the body (not to mention the workings of the penis and one’s sexual health long-term) is…astonishing to me. The level of delusion is mind-boggling.

Sigh. We live in interesting times, and we’re all just making our way, I know. And I understand that these issues are complicated, but in another sense, they’re actually quite straightforward.

The more I allow myself to be guided by God, and the compass that is natural law, as I see it, the more easily I can find peace, not only with the process of life, and the changes that we are all subject to, but also, conversely, with the immense power that we have to choose—the larger subject which really is at the heart of “Portal,” my new book.

It was only thanks to the grace of God (and the choices I made upon allowing myself to be inspired by God) that, in the end, I did not go through with having inert sacks of plastic and foreign matter sewed into my breasts. 

On my way out of that plastic surgeon’s office, the receptionist told me to just call to book the appointment for the final procedure, and I remember nodding numbly, assuring her that I would do just that—and I really had every intention to.

Then, I pushed open the door, and stepped out into what had blossomed into a glorious, warm, early spring day in downtown Halifax, Nova Scotia—one of those spring days that feels like a revelation: warmth, finally, after months of bitter wind and snow.

And in that one shimmering moment, with the sun beaming onto my skin, into my heart, I suddenly and immediately knew that I would never ever return to that office, and that I would never be affected by anyone ever again suggesting to me that my breasts were anything other than perfect.

In this instance of what felt like a beatification, I was blessed with a sense of deep embodiment, caressed by the sun as it penetrated this body of mine that I knew could not be more exquisite, and that deserved only reverence.

A few days later, I saw a man sitting outside the One World Cafe on Agricola street. He was beautiful, and from several feet away, I knew he was my One and only, and that he would be my husband. 

Lee and I have been together for almost 18 years now, and come the new year, I will have given birth to our eight children (I am now pregnant with my 10th baby).

It just so happens that Lee found (and finds) my body perfect in every way. And, over the years he and I have both changed, and, inevitably, ripened. Lee has gone through injury and recovery and changes of his own, and he has seen my body billow, bloom, soften, and metamorphose time and again, and then condense and harden on account of both time, and conscious intention.

In many ways, Lee and I couldn’t be more different, but we both share an interest—a curiosity, even—in caring for our bodies, and in engaging in practises and habits rooted in choosing the incomparable wealth of health—and while this is not necessarily source of our consistent mutual adoration, it is nonetheless relevant to the connection we have with each other.  

I can also say quite specifically, without reticence or reservation, that I also adore my flaccid, tiny-yet-somehow-ponderous breasts, that droop like desiccated raisins, with their long, stretched-out nipples that point to the floor. 

But I am not immune to any of the provocations or demonic seductions of our age (and I do think self-harm is fundamentally demonic). Birth has been the foremost source of growth and learning for me, but our blind spots can be immensely alluring, and I think most of us learn and grow in a circular, recursive way, repeating certain lessons until we “graduate,” which, as that early 15th century alchemical term implies, involves continuous tempering and the refinement of our quality. 

On that note, I have a botox story too, that I’ll be sharing very soon… ;)

In the meantime, don’t forget to reserve your signed copy of “Portal: The Art of Choosing Orgasmic, Pain-Free, Blissful Birth” within the next few hours, as the deadline is this evening (11:59 EST). The print option includes: 

* Immediate access to the PDF version

* Your name, published in the acknowledgements section of the official world-wide release (in both print and kindle format)

* A signed advance print copy of “Portal,” sent to your home (anywhere in the world—shipping in August)

* The opportunity to join my launch team, and support me in sharing the book as widely as possible

* My eternal gratitude <3

(And, if a signed physical copy isn’t for you, I’m also offering the option of only buying the PDF advance copy, which will be sent to you right away—click here for the PDF-only). 

“Portal” will be fully launched on Amazon and Kindle in September (and yes, eventually as an audiobook on Audible), and in the early fall, I’ll be having a flash “sale” of the Kindle version for $1.99 (which I am also hoping everyone will buy, even if you’ve already purchased the advance copy!!—to trigger the algorithm and support the book’s progress!)—and of course, with Amazon’s shipping options, the physical book will be cheaper too. 

But buying the book directly from me now, is a way to both get a special collector’s edition copy signed by yours truly, and to generously support my work, as I have single-handedly bootstrapped everything about the book’s production—and I am truly truly grateful to everyone who has shown so much interest. 

In fact, the very first proof run of a few hundred copies that I had printed first sold out completely, and the reviews that have been pouring in already from women all over the world are glowing, which is just the most wonderful feeling. 

Some of the recent reviews include:

“You need this book, whether you are pregnant, postpartum, or just a human being who wants to know how to choose the portals to ecstasy and God, and to choose to move away from the portals of pain and suffering. Sounds crazy, I know, but when you read it, you’ll see how truly lovely her transmission is.” —S.

“Just finished “Portal.” This book is about so much more than birth, as a well as illustrating a vision of birth that is possible for ALL women. I believe that with my whole being. Yolande gives a raw, honest, totally owning her shit, taking responsibility for the creation of her life, beautiful illustration of life, y’all. Read it. Everyone.” —K. 

“I can’t put it down! Thank you so much for writing it, it is incredible.” —G. 

Thank you. <3 

PS: I'm coming to my hometown of Vancouver, BC this fall of 2023 with my giant belly, my teenaged daughter, and my little sweetheart toddler Helio! I'll be doing a full-day, in-person workshop on self-healing and German New Medicine in the context of wild pregnancy and freebirth on Saturday, September 16th, and a public book-reading/signing on Sunday September 17th. Click here to be added to the waitlist, and be the first to receive the details and registration links soon. ❤️