14/4/25 My Breasts That Breathe With Me

There are parts of our bodies that seem to understand before we do. And I want to write about my breasts.

Breasts? Yes—you read that right. Boobs, tits, breasts, pecho, tetas... whatever you call them.

I’m not here to talk about how breasts are sexualized or judged, nor do I want to dive into patriarchy, misogyny, or shame.

I just want to talk about my breasts—how we breathe together.

They’ve always been there, quietly present, sensing things before I even had the words for them. They are part of my womanhood, yes, but more than that, they are a doorway—to emotion, to intimacy, to attachment. And somehow, in their softness, I find a kind of truth I still don’t fully understand.

Breasts carry stories that are rarely spoken—stories of nourishment and sensuality, of softness, memory, and quiet knowing. They are often our first point of contact with the world, the first place where attachment begins. They hold echoes of that earliest intimacy, and perhaps that’s why they remain so sensitive to closeness, to distance, to emotional presence or absence. They change with time and with touch, growing tender in affection, tightening with grief, responding instinctively to cold, to sadness, to fear, to love. In them lives something ancient and unspoken—a knowledge beneath language.

I suddenly thought back to my Vipassana retreat.

For those unfamiliar, Vipassana is a silent meditation practice rooted in the Buddhist tradition—ten days of silence, stillness, and inward observation. No speaking, no reading, no writing. Just you, your breath, your body, and whatever arises from the depths of your mind. Every day, we were taught to observe bodily sensations with equanimity, to scan through the body from head to toe, again and again, noticing without reacting.

One afternoon, in that deep quiet, I found myself reflecting on my breasts.

At first, it was simply part of the body scan—observing the area, noticing sensation, tingling, warmth, or absence of it.

But then, my attention lingered. My thoughts softened and deepened.

They’re small and delicate.

I remember, during puberty, asking my parents why everyone else’s breasts seemed to grow while mine stayed the same.

They brushed it off with vague reassurances—everything is fine, they said.

Eventually, in the long, slow journey of coming home to myself, I started to realize it.

I began to feel: these are my breasts. And I love love love them.

They’re petite, playful, sensitive. I know how much beautiful sensation they can hold.

I enjoy observing them—not in a way that objectifies, but in a way that honors.

I enjoy the way they respond—when kissed, sucked, kneaded, or simply touched with care.

And though I said I don’t want to write about breasts as symbols—sometimes, it’s hard to fully separate them. The world projects so much meaning onto this part of the body, that it inevitably shapes how I question my own. So I write—not to define, but to untangle. To soften the edges of what I’ve been taught, and listen instead to what I actually feel.

And in listening to myself more honestly, I begin to notice how this body—my breasts, my heart, my softness—responds in relationship. After laying the foundation of trust in a relationship, we must allow ourselves—and each other’s inner child—to come out from time to time. Intimacy, at its best, is like two persons co-creating a safe space—a soft playground of sorts—where our inner children can be triggered, but also feel seen, recognized, understood, heard, and gently held.

It also means learning to become the parent our inner child needs—

to protect them like a father would, and to nurture them like a mother would.

Not placing that responsibility on our partner—not expecting them to be our therapist, our teacher, or our surrogate parent. Our partner is not there to raise the inner child, but to help build the space where that child feels safe enough to come out and play.

Sometimes, that child is curious and silly;

Sometimes, that child is creative and naughty;

Other times, that child is quiet, trembling, or in tears.

When they appear, we need to welcome them—

to hold them with care, and embrace both our own and each other’s unfiltered truths.

And in those moments, our bodies often speak for us.

The chest tightens, or maybe it softens.

The breasts, too, feel—responding not just to touch, but to safety.

To presence. To being met.

There was a moment in my life that I now recognize as deeply traumatic—not marked by screaming or visible violence, but by the quiet erosion of my boundaries. I remember it clearly: I had told him I wasn’t feeling okay, that I needed space—in my own home. I told him I didn’t feel safe, and that I wanted him to leave. I asked for time before we discussed anything. But he wouldn’t listen. He stayed. He kept pushing, kept talking, kept guilt-tripping me into a conversation I wasn’t ready to have. When I insisted on being alone, he shifted tactics—pleading, clinging. I stormed into my room and called a friend, asking if I could stay with her, because he simply wouldn’t go. She said of course I could—but gently reminded me: “This is your home. He should be the one to leave.”

When I stepped out, ready to say those words—please leave—I found him still on the couch, hugging himself, his body small and curled inward. His eyes were full of silent pleading, almost childlike. And I froze. The lines I had practiced caught in my throat. I stood there, torn between the need to protect my space and the unexpected tenderness that rose inside me, mixed with guilt for wishing him gone. I sat beside him and asked, “Are you okay?”—and he collapsed into my arms, sobbing. He clung to me as if I were the only safe thing left. But what I felt wasn’t comfort or connection. It was disgust—sharp and wordless. Not because I hated him, but because I could feel how his need had turned into control. Like an infant grasping at a breast, not with tenderness but with desperation, he had seized a thread of my softness and yanked it violently. I didn’t want to give. But he held on. And I didn’t know how to say no.

So I put aside my own feelings, took a deep breath, and told him gently, “It’s okay…”—more for him than for myself. I stayed until he calmed down, holding back the tightness in my chest. When his breathing softened, I told him he could sleep on the couch—but that I expected him to leave the next morning.

In the hours that followed, and the weeks, months, even years after, I found myself holding onto a quiet, persistent anger. Angry that I allowed it to happen. Angry that I had silenced my own emotions simply because someone else was crying louder than me. Angry that I had turned against myself so instinctively, as though his pain mattered more than my boundaries. And when I think of that night, my chest still tightens. A sickened feeling settles in my breasts—visceral and undeniable. It’s a bodily memory before it’s a mental one. The same questions echo: Why didn’t I push him out? Why didn’t I scream? Why did I cradle someone who so clearly ignored my boundaries?

Over time, I’ve come to see that this cycle of questioning, too, became a kind of violence—against myself. A loop of self-blame that punishes instead of protects. I know now that I need to loosen my grip on that narrative, to let myself breathe again. With distance, I’ve begun to understand: he was suffering, caught in the patterns of his own character. And I hope he finds peace.

I also came to realized that what I experienced that night was a collapse of roles. His pain became a kind of pressure, and I slipped silently into the role of caregiver—one I never chose. Perhaps I held him because in his desperation, I saw a younger version of myself—abandoned, small, aching to be held. I gave what I had never received.

Now I understand: my own tenderness is not weakness, but as evidence of my humanity. In that moment of chaos, I did the best I could. I stayed grounded. I told the truth. I offered him a couch, but I also drew a line. That doesn’t make me naive. That makes me strong. Also, when someone is in pain, it’s natural to feel compassion. But I need to be aware, sometimes, the crying child isn’t the inner child—it’s a wounded adult using need to bypass responsibility. A partner is not here to raise my inner child, and I’m not here to raise theirs. We are here to build a space that feels safe for both of us—not to be consumed by each other’s pasts.

Anger is freedom, independence, expansiveness, and entitlement. It is justice, passion, clarity, and motivation. Anger is instrumental, thoughtful, complicated, and resolved. In anger, whether you like it or not, there is truth.

By Soraya Chemaly

Over the years, I had similar dreams—five or six of them, across different nights. In each one, he appeared. Sometimes I dreamed I was in my new home, surrounded by friends celebrating a housewarming, and he would suddenly show up. At first, with the bright, kind, innocent smile of a boy who thought he was giving me a surprise. Then, with the wounded face of someone to be let in.

In the first dream, I hid behind a wall—I was terrified.

In the second, I shouted at him.

In the third, I hit him—my friends surrounded and protected me, and I remember thinking, my boxing training wasn’t for nothing after all.

In the fourth, I said nothing—I simply closed the door, while he stayed on the other side, explaining himself with a long string of wounded justifications.

The last time I dreamt of him, I was on my Vipassana retreat. In the dream, I was alone—no friends this time. I might have been in Berlin, or perhaps in some quiet Nordic country. My apartment was on the ground floor.

He came again.

I opened the door, looked into his eyes, and said: “Thank you for coming. But I’m sorry—I can’t let you in. I hope you find your peace. Goodbye.”

I remember that dream so vividly. After I said goodbye, the gong rang—it was 4:30 a.m. at the retreat. I opened my eyes in the darkness, and tears quietly fell.

In that moment, something in me softened. I suddenly understood him. I forgave him—not because what happened was okay, but because I could see his pain more clearly.

I realized how deeply anxious he must have been—how lost, how overwhelmed by emotions he didn’t know how to hold. How unbearable it must feel to live in a body that’s always humming with restlessness, to not understand your own inner world, and to need closeness—urgently, desperately—just to feel a little less adrift.

That kind of anxiety is a form of suffering too.

I don’t want anything more from him.

But I find myself hoping—genuinely—that he might one day find a way to suffer less.

To soften his own ache.

To find a rhythm that holds him, gently.

And at the same time, I forgave myself. I saw how hard my subconscious had been working to help me. How many times it returned to that night, gently offering new endings—through dreams, through symbols, through tenderness. Not to rewrite the past, but to release what I had carried far too long—letting my body and mind process what my waking self had struggled to release.

This experience also made me more guarded. Sometimes, when someone cries in front of me, my instinct is to hold him/her. That reflex still lives in me. But now, because of this memory, I pause. I take a breath before offering my softness. I wonder: is this person meeting me in truth, or are they using their pain to bypass their own work? I hesitate—not because I don’t want to love, but because I’ve learned to listen more carefully before I give.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I’ve stopped trying to label it.

It is simply my thing.

My lesson.

My consequence.

My emotional syllabus.

This is what life gave me to learn.

And still, I believe in softness. I believe in building spaces where both people can be held—but only if they choose to hold themselves first.

Sometimes I think my breasts remember things before I do—my breasts have taught me not only how to receive, but also how to close.

There was a time when Lau felt like one of the closest people in my life. We shared long talks, odd humor, and the kind of wordless moments that felt like home. We were friends, sisters, tías.

She’s from Nicaragua. We used to share this whimsical sort of rhythm—like when we’d be walking through the park and, without saying a word, both be drawn to the same tree, reaching out to hug it as if we had heard the same quiet call.

At some point, we were both learning how to set boundaries, how to stop saying yes when we meant no.

There was one time, sitting in a café we both love, a man interrupted our conversation. He kept talking and talking—I was already impatient, but I didn’t say anything. When he asked for our contact, I pretended not to understand Spanish, and Lau picked up on it.

She told him:

“Un momento, voy a traducirle a mi amiga.” 

I sat there listening to her “translation,” thinking Seriously? I don't want to "know".

But I played along, nodded with mock realization, and said sweetly:

“Ahhhh. Perdón, no llevo mi celular, no recuerdo mi número.”

She gave me that Shikin... seriously? face.

I gave her the You started it look.

Now, we’d probably just look the guy in the eye and say, “Estamos hablando. Nos dejas un momento porfa?”

Simple.

Clear.

To me, breasts are a blend of feminine charm and something quietly maternal—not in the functional sense of feeding a child, but in a deeper, more emotional register.

When it comes to femininity, I feel I fully embody womanliness.

But motherhood? That’s more ambiguous. If there’s something I ever feel uncertain about regarding my breasts, it’s not their sensuality—it’s that their smallness sometimes makes me wonder whether they carry enough of that archetypal, nurturing quality.

Whether they can hold, offer, provide.

One day, I shared a quiet worry with her. I told her I sometimes look at my breasts and wonder—does this mean I’m not maternal? If I become a mother one day, will my body know how to hold that role?

She listened, and then smiled in that gentle, grounded way of hers.

“Motherhood,” she said, “is not just for children.”

She once told me she sees in me a kind of natural maternity—soft, instinctive, and deeply rooted in care. Not something I perform, just something that shows up in the way I notice, the way I nurture, the way I quietly hold space for others.

She says it’s in the little things: like the way I’ll pause on the street to rescue an insect struggling on the pavement, gently lifting it back onto a tree with a leaf. Or the way I’ll bring over a pot of soup when she—or anyone I care about—is sick.

My Russian friends joke that I have a “Russian grandma soul.” Even though they’re all older than me, I’m the one saying things like, “Take this tangerine for the road,” or “Text us when you get home,” or “Don’t walk around with your phone in your hand—it’s not safe.”

Sometimes, when I’m dogsitting for a friend, I’ll make little homemade treats for their dog. Not because anyone asked. Just… because.

And she is right, there’s a deep tenderness in me—toward the people I love, toward the world, and lately, more and more, toward myself.

In the past few years, I’ve been learning to recognize and nurture the little girl inside me. I feel the love I offer myself—at times like a protective father, at times like a nurturing mother. I’m becoming stronger.

Softer.

More whole.

One step at a time.

When my body feels out of balance, I pause. I turn inward. I stretch. I walk slowly. I move my limbs like I’m listening to their language. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes I lie still and breathe. Sometimes I press my palms into my chest or belly and simply ask: What do you need? What do you long for?

Sometimes, the answer is simple, almost childlike—a bowl of warm borscht. I make it slowly, tenderly. I chop the vegetables with care, let the colors bleed and swirl into one another, stir patiently as the scent fills the kitchen. When I cook, I don’t hold back. I use the freshest beets, a good piece of meat, the broth that has been cooking for hours and hours, and the herbs I’ve grown with my own hands in the garden. Because I deserve the best nourishment. I deserve warmth. I deserve good energy. To me, food is more than sustenance—it’s energy, yes, but also a quiet, tangible form of love.

(I remember I once began writing a blog about borscht—I never finished it. It’s still sitting somewhere, half-written, waiting. Maybe I’ll return to it soon.)

When I feel sad, I try to remind myself: You’re allowed to feel sad. And it is okay. It’s not always easy. There are still moments when I realize how harsh I can be with myself—how quick I am to judge, to push, to dismiss my own softness.

But I’m learning.

Learning to offer myself the same tenderness I so easily give to others.

Learning that being gentle with myself isn’t weakness, but a quiet kind of strength.

Healing, for me, also happens through grounding—letting my bare feet touch the earth, spending time with trees, with rivers, with silence. I listen to podcasts, take courses, light candles, read books that speak to the parts of me I didn’t know how to name. I meditate. I pray in my own way. I believe in spirit—not as doctrine, but as connection. I believe in the wisdom of the earth, in small rituals, in water, in the sky.

And the emotional work is often the hardest. Self-compassion doesn’t always come naturally to me. I still carry that old pattern—the one that pushes me to keep going, keep doing, keep proving. I’m unlearning it, gently.

So, I choose to surround myself with people who feel like sunshine—intelligent, kind, beautiful, curious souls who make me want to expand. They remind me that softness is not fragility, but wisdom in motion. Their presence makes me feel held, not judged. They are kind, curious, unapologetically themselves. Some are bold and direct, challenging me with the hard truths I need to hear. Others are soft and whimsical, moving through life like wind and laughter. Some 100% validate my emotions; others remind me to laugh with them even when I am in the middle of the storm.

Each one reflects a part of me I’m still learning to love.

Each of them, in their own way, is walking a path of self-healing.

With them, I feel seen.

I feel reflected, I feel inspired.

I feel reminded that I don’t have to walk alone.

Reading Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving, I came across the idea of the re-parenting circle—a group of people who, through conscious care and presence, help each other heal the parts of themselves that were once neglected, misunderstood, or wounded.

I realize now: I have my own circle. We are each other’s re-parenting circle, defined by the quiet acts of love we offer one another. The way we listen without rushing. The way we check in. The way we say, “I see you. I’m here.” We’ve held each other through heartbreaks and breakdowns.

And I count this as one of my greatest fortunes: to be surrounded by people who are both tender and real, who grow beside me, in their own beautiful, imperfect rhythms.

So far, I’ve spoken of the breast as a place of giving, of healing, of nourishment, of love. Now, let’s talk about the emotional life of my breasts.

Sometimes, they ache—when they’re tender with sadness, or stirred by the tides of my cycle.

Sometimes, they cry—when hormones surge like waves, pulling emotion to the surface.

Sometimes, they are sensitive—like shy little girls, curious and uncertain, unsure how to be with themselves, or with the other.

Sometimes, they are aroused—wild and sensual, burning with unfiltered heat and desire.

Sometimes, they long—to be held, to be kissed, to be known, to be loved.

Sometimes, they close—guarded and silent, unwilling to interact.

Sometimes, they soften—in the presence of someone safe, someone whose energy feels kind.

Sometimes, they tremble—with tremendous memories.

Sometimes, my nipples feel threatened—when they are seized by hands that make me feel unsafe, unseen, unloved.

And sometimes, they are furious—when intimacy is mistaken for entitlement, when their “no” is ignored, when the other thinks only of “but I want,” when my goodwill is treated not as a gift, but as something granted. It feels like being sucked dry by a merciless leech—emptied, even when I had no will to give.

In those moments, my breasts burn—not with desire, but with rage.

And somehow, I believe the breast is a channel for this primal, powerful, and uniquely feminine impulse to feel—a quiet instinct that belongs to womanhood.

And then, there are moments of unspoken intimacy. Moments when the body knows earlier than the mind.

Sometimes, when someone I love lays his head on my chest, I feel something stir—deep and unnameable.

It’s not just closeness.

It’s a kind of recognition.

An ache blooming quietly beneath my skin and in my heart, as if some ancient part of me—long asleep—remembers something.

And then there are slower moments—when his lips, his hands, his breath graze my breasts. When he suckles, kneads, lingers. That’s when it happens.

A current—subtle at first—rises through me, like water drawn from a hidden well.

Yes, perhaps it’s dopamine. Maybe oxytocin.

But what I feel is something else.

Something more elemental.

It’s not about arousal.

It’s something far softer.

Far deeper.

A tenderness so vast it shivers through my bones.

A quiet flood of love that pulses, swells, and almost overwhelms me.

In those moments, I begin to melt.

To dissolve at the edges.

To become liquid.

I want us to pour into each other—not to consume,

but to merge.

I want to offer myself—not in gestures, not as performance, not in fragments—

but in essence.

I want to open—slowly, wholly.

To hold him with everything I am—my arms, my breath, the quiet gravity of my being.

I want to cradle him in the dark warmth of my softness.

And in that closeness—when we are as intimate as two bodies can be—

I want to look into his eyes.

I want to touch his lips.

I want to hear his breath, feel his heartbeat, sense the warmth of his skin.

I want our bodies to wrap around each other,

and our souls to melt into one another—not to disappear,

but to meet.

Deeply. Wildly. Completely.

I want to take him in—not just into my body,

but into my breath.

Into my heartbeat.

Into the stillest part of me.

I want to love him with my whole presence.

My breasts, like my whole being, are sensitive—tender and reactive, fierce when hurt, loud when angry, soft when held. They ache, they bloom, they remember. They carry love, and they carry the echoes of pain. Just like me.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we are willing.

We are willing to feel—all of it.

Because isn’t that what we came here for?

To feel fully.

To live at 100%.

To taste the fire, the rain, the stillness, the trembling.

To let life run through us without flinching.

And honestly—this body, this vessel of sensation and intuition—it’s a miracle.

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to have a penis, to feel the swell of blood become direction, and to carry the tension and thrill of forwardness in your body.

Or to be a mushroom in the shade—soft, silent, drinking dew, dreaming slowly through spores.

Or a rhinoceros, thick-skinned and tender-hearted, carrying a quiet weight across a savannah, thinking in slow pulses.

Or a bird, who never doubts if it can fly—who simply opens its wings and does.

And if you had roots—real ones—maybe grounding wouldn’t be a metaphor anymore.

Maybe you'd feel safe simply by staying still.

Maybe you'd never doubt your place.

I don’t have answers.

But I love wondering.

I love imagining how the body, as a container, might shift what the soul feels.

I think wonder is one of the ways the body plays—

softly, curiously, without needing resolution.

And perhaps, wondering is how we begin to listen.

To ourselves.

To the world.

To all the living, breathing forms we’re not.

Because to connect with myself is to begin understanding everything else.

And my breasts—my dear, alive, responsive breasts—

they know this.

They are not just soft.

They are curious.

They are alive.

Like the rest of me.

My breasts—my tender, breathing, remembering breasts—

that live with me, that feel with me,

that breathe with me.