On the topic of Jameela Jamil's boobs

Before I gave birth to my son earlier this year, my boobs had found their comfort zone. I was sitting pretty at a sprightly 34D; my bras were lacy, my back was tiny and my options for displaying them were endless. I had a slight sense of smug satisfaction at having achieved, without any real endeavour, society's definition of 'perfection' - two perky, soft norks that provided both sufficient head-leaning comfort and lust-inducing pleasure whilst not giving me a backache or forcing me to buy those over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders that only come in two colours with wide straps that stop you wearing anything remotely revealing. I could spend a tenner in New Look or thirty in Marks and it didn't matter - so long as there was a lacy bit of fabric softly cupping me, they looked brilliant.

Then I got pregnant.

My son was 9lbs and 1oz, born three weeks earlier than expected because he'd taken it upon himself to shove his arse firmly beneath my ribcage and spread his legs. I'd run the gamut of skeletal preggers problems culminating in rib flare, a pregnancy-related issue that nobody warned me about and I never knew existed, alongside suspected pre-eclampsia, so off I went for my planned c-section not knowing what was to come afterwards. I mean, I'm only in my early thirties - I was going to shrink right back, right? Right?

Attempted breastfeeding, pumping, a bout of severe mastitis and repeated draining of swollen breasts meant that my once-perfect puppies were beginning to dwindle. They were no longer the fat, supple jubblies that I enjoyed jiggling in the shower but something more akin to a pair of old socks hanging on the washing line; to top it off, in all my smug weeks of carefully rubbing Bio-Oil into my growing tummy, I'd neglected my boobies and although I had avoided the dreaded stretchmarks on my belly, my breasts did not escape the same fate. Atop each darkened, cracked nipple was a crown of spiny, silvery lines, spider-webbing across the top of each breast. To make it worse, my humungous baby boy had ensured that my back size had increased by 4 inches. Four - so those beautiful pert boobies were now also spread across a much larger surface area to boot. None of my clothes fit, and I felt hideous. I'd made a resolution to hide beneath t-shirts and wide-strapped vest tops, wearing £2 Primark sale bras in the completely wrong size in an effort to persuade myself that at some point, it would all go back to how it was before. One month passed. Then two. Then three. Nothing changed. I started to despair about how I looked; I was in mourning for my old boobs, longing to look down and see them full and fat again. I couldn't bear to see myself naked. Taking a shower was no longer a fun fifteen minutes of soaping up and jiggling, but instead a jump-in, jump-straight-out affair whilst avoiding the mirror. I cried for a solid 22 minutes in an H&M changing room because everything I tried on looked wrong. I was now the owner of a big, flat, saggy chest - and I hated it.

My husband tried to reassure me several times that I wasn't as hideous as I thought. But, when you're in the grip of a body demon, you can't see past the angry voice in your head that tells you that you look disgusting - I was all too familiar with that voice, having flirted dangerously with body dysmorphia and eating disorders in my twenties - and again, ten years later, I was indulging it.

It was about this time that I finally caught Netflix's show The Good Place. Whilst idly browsing a Reddit thread about underrated TV shows, I saw it popping up again and again. I was stuck indoors as it was pissing it down so I decided to stick it on in the background as I sorted the house - by the end of the first episode I was hooked. And not just on the storyline - not unlike the show's protagonist Eleanor, I was beginning to find myself strongly drawn to the character of Tahani Al-Jamil, played by our very own Jameela Jamil. I won't offer spoilers further to that, but Jamil plays a blinder as a well-spoken, overprivileged, toweringly tall woman who lives in couture dresses and heels, kind of like a more likeable, more sarcastic version of Carrie from SATC. She is beautiful - her character revolves around her beauty - but that is not what drew me to her. What drew me in the most was - get this - she has booby stretch marks. Just like mine.

Before The Good Place, I wasn't unaware of Jameela Jamil. I'd already followed her #iweigh Instagram movement and even submitted my own image to the feed. I was party to the negative news reports that circled around her when she dared to wear a mini skirt whilst over a size 12. I knew she'd called out the Kardashians for helping promote the patriarchy and she was pioneering the anti-airbrush movement. But she was still someone I saw as far more beautiful than me - someone I had literally nothing in common with, appearance-wise and, even though she was fighting the good fight, I felt was unaware of real "imperfections". Until I saw her boobs.

There, on my telly-box, in my living room, was a beautiful woman with marks. Marks just like mine. Marks that she wore proudly, with no apology. And she looked effing beautiful. I couldn't draw my eyes away - Tahani Al-Jamil was a character who was unapologetically gorgeous, and her stretch marks were a part of that. She wasn't covering them, or using make-up, or even trying to hide them away - there they were, stripy and imperfect and wonderful and gorgeous all at the same time.

Having taken to Twitter, I was overjoyed to see that Jamil had made a conscious decision to show off her stretch marks -

In that Tweet, I saw myself. Double the age she was when she got her marks, but just as insecure. I was transported back to that shameful afternoon in H&M where I exited the changing rooms red-faced and red-eyed. And I felt better.

I'm still working on my feelings towards my post-baby body. I'm still not the best of friends with my boobs, but Jameela's stretch marks have started me on a journey of acceptance that I never thought I'd be able to embark on. My dive down the rabbit hole has brought me to such joyous things as the #saggyboobsmatter hashtag, and the beauty of Chidera Eggerue (aka @theslumflower). I've spent hours browsing glorious pictures of boobies big, small, lop-sided, high, low, even non-existent - there are so many women out there rockin' the saggy boob, one-boob or no-boob look.

We are conditioned as a society to objectify breasts. Heads are turned away and faces pulled when women breastfeed, naked top halves are ogled or vilified, errant nipples are banned from social media. We teach our young people that breasts are for sex and for that, they must be pert, pretty and perfect. I loved my 34D breasts, but part of that love was based on the feedback I got from others. People envied my boobs. Magazine articles commended the size they were. Men were turned on by them. We see endless jokes and commentary about 'the pencil test', about 'knockers down to your knees' and the association of such boobs with the slovenly, or the aged, or the unattractive. What we fail to see is that at the end of it all - they're tits. A good chunk of the population have them and they come in many different forms.

And you know what? They exist to feed babies, not to please men or fill out dresses.

I am slowly learning to love my new boobs, and my newly-expanded chest. I even invested in a decent bra from M&S (massive thanks to Gina in Southport, what a legend) and pants which make me feel incredible - so much so that I then immediately invested in a low-cut jumpsuit to wear on top, that flashed a little lace to boot. I went out to town and not a single person commented on my boobs. What they did tell me, repeatedly, was that I looked great because I looked so happy.

I'm not ashamed to say I gorged myself on every single episode of The Good Place in the space of two weeks. Tahani continues to be my favourite character, and I can quite happily admit that I now am in possession of a crush not unlike I had when I was fifteen.

So from hereon in, I'm working hard on pulling myself upright, walking with purpose, and rocking my new, saggy, stretch-marked boobs. Thanks, Jameela.