My Reduction Story - 21yrs 30GG to 22yrs 34D☺

I choose the Allure Clinic in Toowoomba after much research because a) Dr Magnusson has multiple 5-star reviews, b) he has a few short youtube videos about various procedures that allowed me to actually see what he was like (at least on camera) and c) it's the closest clinic to my home town.

I’m starting this blog as a ‘thank you’ to all the other blog-writers whose stories I’ve read and re-read and that gave me the courage to start my journey. This is my first blog, so please forgive any long-windedness (or is that detail? You said you liked detail here…). I hope my story gives someone the courage to make a life improving decision, just like reading other women’s stories did for me… :)
So, here we go…
Backstory
I’m a 21 yr old university student studying online because I live 4 1/2 hours drive west of Brisbane. I weigh 64.9kgs which is very normal for me, have a BMI of 22, stand at 1.7m and have a bra size of 8GG (or 30GG depending on country). I’ve never had children or any kind of romantic/sexual experience (hetero, just not interested).
My journey of self-discovery started with a moment of profound self-loathing. I have battled with bra fit since I was 16 and first had difficulty finding a bra that was big enough in the cup but small enough around the ribs. The best I could do was a 12DD from Target, the largest department store in my rural town. Three years later (I was 19), when the 12DDs were so old that the elastic was virtually non-existent, I decided to make my own bra because I couldn’t stomach another tortuous shopping trip. Women have got by for aeons without shop-bought bras, so why can’t I? With a length of flesh-coloured homespun I got to work.
The idea was right, but making it work was something else. Three hours at the sewing machine and I finally had a harness to my liking. I call it a harness because… well, that’s what it was. A single strap that started at the top of the left breast, ran up and over the shoulder, down across the back and under the opposite arm, across the ribs under the breasts, up the back to the opposite shoulder and over to the top of the right breast. Two squares of homespun, shaped with pleats, connected the straps to the rib-strap running under the breasts to form the cups. There was also a narrow strap that ran from the top of one cup down around the rib-strap and up to the other cup. This served to keep my boobs separated (I hate that sweaty feeling) and to keep the rib-strap in place, right up under the breasts. No, it wasn’t pretty or very comfortable, but it did the job. The harness effectively stopped vertical bounce and it held my breast flatter against my chest so they weren’t as noticeable. It did have downsides though: the criss-cross straps ran over the upper shoulder, right next to my neck (I suddenly wore polo shirts all the time); the rubbing of the homespun on my neck made it red; if I lay down one or both boobs would fall out of the sides of the cups; the straps cut into me were they swept up the side of the breasts leaving deep, red lines when I took the harness off. It needed to be washed every night because of the under-boob sweat. After about a year of every-day wear it started smelling kinda funky all the time, no matter how well I washed it, and holes were appearing in the homespun.

For the record, I’m an 8GG; however, I didn’t know that until April 2016 when I was 20, having my first fitting in a Brisbane store. In Myer, the assistant measured me, declared I was an 8GG and that they didn’t stock my size. I remember walking out of the store almost in tears, passing endless rows of lovely, lacy lingerie seemingly mocking me. The scene played out again in David Jones, where I pretended I hadn’t just been fitted and asked for a fitting. I was once again an 8GG and once again, “Sorry, we don’t stock that size” rang in my ears, but another assistant came over and told me that there was a place that catered to my requirements on the outskirts of Brisbane, Big Girls Don’t Cry Any More. I thanked her mechanically and left the store in a daze. Was this normal? Why was this happening? Self-doubt and denial vied for attention as I made my way back through the rows of shirts and blouses. Outside, sitting on a bench watching people make their busy way up and down Brisbane’s main street, I tried not to cry as I phoned Dad to explain why his borrowed bank card hadn’t been used. He was predictably dismissive of the fittings, told me to go find this other store tomorrow and not to worry, it’ll be alright.
The next day as I approached the shop, I couldn’t help watching my reflection in the window. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I inwardly cringed and softened my stride so as to walk as smoothly as possible. Inside, a bubbly assistant came over and asked if I needed a hand with anything. I told her my story and she soon had me in a fitting room with some enormous looking bras to try. I settled on a sports bra, thinking that surely it would live up to its blurb, minimising bust movement and feeling “supportive like you’ve never felt before”. I mean, $90 has to count for something, right?