From Big Boobs to Little Cherry

Since buying my first bra, going to the beach wearing a “top,” through my teenage years in school, and even in the caricatures I drew of myself (or others drew of me), I was always the girl with the big boobs.

2011 and my first boudoir photoshoot <3

When silicone implants became more common in Brazil — around the early 2000s — I overheard two women chatting in a movie theater bathroom about how people were going overboard with implant sizes. As I walked out of the stall to wash my hands, they stopped talking. Maybe they thought I had implants too — my boobs were that big.

Some random flings from my past have told me they still remember my boobs from school. Finding a dress shirt that fit my small back and large chest? A nightmare. Triangle bikini? Not a chance. Going braless? Sweet illusion. I carried these big boobs through life, always kind of thinking I’d reduce them one day — but that thought felt far off. I was terrified of surgery.

Now, after four surgeries (and heading into a fifth in two days), I laugh at that fear.

When I was 14 years old

Having big boobs, just like having a prominent nose, a certain type of mouth, or legs shaped a certain way — it becomes part of who you are. It might sound silly, but me, Rita with the big boobs, was one version. And this new version that’s emerging — who I affectionately call “little cherry” — is definitely another. Not better or worse. Just different.

This new version will need new tops, “no bra” moments (that I always dreamed of), new necklines. Maybe she’ll be bolder — who knows? Different, for sure.

When I got my first breast cancer diagnosis in 2022, my first question was: Will I have to remove my boobs?The oncologist said no. In my case, the chance of recurrence was the same whether I removed them or not. So we went with a lumpectomy (removing just what was left of the tumor after chemo). I was relieved — still very attached to my big boobs. I knew I’d have to reduce them eventually, and honestly, I kind of wanted to. But I kept them — still a big part of my identity.

In my 20's

When the cancer came back less than two years later, mastectomy was the only option. Initially, they considered removing both breasts, but later decided to remove only the right one, where the cancer had returned both times. I panicked.

The panic only eased when I saw the reconstruction options. I realized I could still have breasts that reflected my “booby personality” — not massive anymore, but with presence.

My hubby's description of me

The unilateral mastectomy happened. And the recovery? It was rough. June was a complicated and delicate month because of the skin on that side, previously treated with radiation, now as fragile as tissue paper. I had two urgent surgeries within 10 days, and my breast was reduced by half — until it became the “little cherry.”

I haven’t had the final implant yet. Right now, I’m still using a tissue expander, which stretches the skin in preparation for the implant. The other breast? Still the same ol’ big one — but it’s going to get a reduction soon too, to match the cherry.

Have I cried through this process? Absolutely. And I’m still figuring out who this new Rita is — the one with the small boob.

But now, I welcome this new woman: bold in her attitude and courage, with a small breast that, thanks to a side lift and the future implant, will stand perky for quite some time — proudly saying: "I made it."

Or I Stop and Rest, or I Stop and Rest

⚠️ Trigger warning: This post touches on sensitive topics and may stir deep emotions. Or simply can make you think!

People who know me—those who’ve spent real time with me, my friends, family, or even anyone who’s read my birth chart—would describe me as “energetic,” “passionate,” “a hard worker.”No one close to me would ever say “calm,” “cute,” or “zen.” That’s just not me.

Patience? I've been working on it since forever. Procrastination? Not in my vocabulary. I’m a doer. Always with a new project or idea. I feel like if I don’t create, I’ll explode from excess energy.

Meditation? I like it—for 5 minutes. Yoga? Love it—as long as it’s fast-paced. That’s just my nature. Denying it doesn’t help.

On top of that, I like to control things. Not people—just me: my schedule, my health, my routine.Annoying, I know.

Now mix that: high-energy + control-freak…Add physical limitations, being 95% at home, needing help for nearly everything I usually do, for at least five weeks, plus the looming fears: “Will my skin heal? “Can I still do the reconstruction? “How long until I get back to my active life?”“When will I be able to raise my right arm again?”

Simple questions with no simple answers. And the only thing I know for sure is: I need patience. Which, of course, is the one thing I lack.

I was doing really well with this second treatment, just like I did with the first. I was even recovering fast from the one-sided mastectomy. But then my skin (thanks to previous radiation) decided not to cooperate. Two unexpected surgeries within two weeks later, and here I am… deep in “WTF is life?” mode.

Yes, I’ve had my “poor me” days—they’re mostly gone. I’ve had (and still have) sad days. But I’m managing: therapy sessions, spiritual tools, and lots of venting to my mom and Alan (thank you and sorry!).

I know that in a couple of months, I’ll read this and think, “Why was I overthinking? Everything’s fine now.”But right now, riding this bumpy road is exhausting, and my butt is tired.I want to reach the final destination—with new boobs, good news, and full independence. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. But this time, there’s no other option.

Either I stop and rest, or I stop and rest. That’s it.

It may sound silly, but I wrote myself a Post-it note that says “REST” and stuck it to my laptop.I even set daily timers to remind me of this incredibly hard task: just relax. Ommmm.

From Your First Dove

First dove— that’s what she used to call me. I’m her first granddaughter, and she gave me that curious nickname.

Grandma Therezinha was always a fun, vibrant presence in my life, full of stories about her childhood in Cuiabá — tales of the unusual (and to me, hilarious) names of her friends in that quiet town that, according to her, later became unrecognizable, without the shady trees and inner gardens she remembered so fondly.

I never visited her hometown, but it felt like I knew it like the back of my hand from her countless stories — from the accident she had as a child, falling onto an iron fence and being bedridden for a year, to her strength, her mischief, and at the same time, her impeccable sense of organization and financial discipline.

I also remember visiting her at work at the State Health Department. As modest as it was, to me it felt like a dream. I still remember her black leather pencil case filled with pencils, erasers, and pens. She took the bus from Leblon to downtown Rio — and of course, more stories came from that route, like the one about a drunk man who passed out during a turn and landed on her foot, actually breaking it. A tragic story, yes, but when she told it, it became pure comedy, always accompanied by her wonderful laughter.

That was Grandma. A passionate Aries who could go from laughter to anger, from teasing to praise, in a heartbeat.

During my teenage years, I started spending even more time at her place, especially because of the beach. I’d stay weekends — and even weekdays — after fencing classes with my cousin Inoã and my aunt Leila, who lived with her. I’d sleep in her room — and even with her legendary snoring, I loved it! You know how a grandmother’s home feels, right?

A few years later, I moved in with her completely, bringing everything I had. It was a sort of crazy deal — “I’ll keep you company” — since she was living alone again, and I had been craving a room of my own since I was three.

Grandma Therezinha became my second mother in a quiet, loving agreement that lasted until I was 27 and got married for the first time. Those were years full of life lessons: about self-esteem — how she always said she saw herself as beautiful and confident, without shame — about family, in our big Sunday lunches, and about friendship, during our trips to Talho Capixaba, our gossip sessions, and the soap operas we watched together.

I remember the letter I wrote her, crying, as I said goodbye to her house when I got married for the first time. Less than two years later, I divorced… and went back to her company. We lived together for almost seven more years, until I married again and moved to the U.S.

These past 10 years living abroad, I visited Brazil four times, and each time I emotionally recharged by spending time with her — asking her to tell my favorite stories again, flipping through her photo albums, asking about old acquaintances, begging her to make the banana cuca I loved, and soaking up her gentle head rubs with her long fingernails.

Ah, I could stay here reminiscing forever... even about when she’d pretend to understand what I said but actually hadn’t heard a thing because her hearing aid was off.

Oh, Grandma Therezinha... a lover of life, of cold beer, of vanilla ice cream she sometimes hid from guests. On my last visit, I got to introduce her to my furry son, my dog Herkey, who I took with me to Rio. She could never pronounce his name correctly, but the way she said it was the sweetest and most loving version — in true Therezinha style.

Your first dove is here, going through treatment, getting stronger, inspired by the way you lived and looked at life. I love you!