There’s Always Some Action in Your Breasts

For years, I ignored this part of my body. Then a doctor said something that made me laugh — and wake up.

“Try to relax,” she said.
“Think of Brad Pitt.”

I was lying on a table, half-naked, trying not to panic while a needle was sliding into my breast.

And that was the doctor’s advice.
Think of Brad Pitt.

It wasn’t funny then.
Now? Maybe a little.

But something happened in that moment.
Something cracked open.
Not just skin. Not just a cyst.
Something deeper.

I realised —
I had no real relationship with my breasts.

Not then.
Maybe not ever.

They were there.
But silent.
Or maybe not silent — just ignored.

This week I was in a taxi, heading to another check-up.
And I could feel it — that quiet fear, the tightness in my chest.

They were with me.
Fear. Anxiety.
Two of my oldest companions.

Not screaming. Not panicking.
Just… present.
Old companions.

And I whispered:

It’s okay. I’m driving now. You can sit beside me. The light is leading us.

At the clinic, the doctor looked at my scan and said:

“Maja, there’s always some kind of action in your breasts.”

And I smiled.

Because yes, there is.
And maybe there always has been.
They’ve been trying to get my attention for years.

Not in dramatic ways.
Just in quiet, persistent whispers.
Come back. Feel us. Be with us.

Growing up, no one taught me to love them.
No one even said I could.

I hunched my shoulders.
Wore baggy clothes.
Watched other girls grow faster.
Felt wrong. Late. Small.

And then came the war.
And when life becomes survival,
No one teaches you softness.
Or womanhood.
Or how to live in your own skin without shame.

So I skipped that part.
Or maybe it was taken from me.

Later, when the boys came,
I thought they were too small, not enough, not feminine.
I told myself I didn’t care.
But I did.
And I left them.
Disconnected.

Years later, someone said,

“You have beautiful breasts.”

And I didn’t believe him.
I thought he was just being kind.
But something in me wanted it to be true.

They don’t want to be judged, watched, or fixed.
They want to be loved.
Not because of size.
Not because of youth.
Not because they please someone else.

Just because they’re mine.
Because I forgot them
and they kept whispering anyway.

And now, in my forties,
with these check-ups, these quiet warnings,
my body is asking for more than care.

It’s screaming for connection.
It’s saying —
Don’t wait for pain to listen.
Don’t wait to love me.

Because our bodies are not for approval.
They are for connection.

Not something to be perfect.
But something to return to.
To live in.
To trust.
To stay with.

And maybe that’s the real journey —
not finishing anything,
but finally showing up.

And today —

I do.