If you live in Los Angeles, California, you know how intense it can be to be a woman here. The plastic surgery culture is everywhere—loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. Try spotting a woman without a full face of glam makeup at 6 a.m., without lip fillers, eyebrow lifts, or Botox. Add the daily social media feed filled with perfect Barbies and it’s enough to make anyone feel nauseated.
(Not to shame anyone who chooses surgery—we’re all just trying to do our best in our own ways.)
Growing up, I was fairly comfortable with my looks. I couldn’t call myself ugly, but I never considered myself particularly pretty either. I was… average. Mediocre. That changed around middle school. Suddenly, every girl around me seemed to be growing in ways I wasn’t—boobs, long legs, clear skin. Boys liked certain things, other girls flaunted traits I didn’t have. I couldn’t measure up, and my self-image, something I had barely thought about before, suddenly felt like the most important thing about me.
And of course, people were quick to point out my flaws:
“Your eyes are too big.”
“Why do you have those bumps on your forehead?”
“Doesn’t it hurt sitting on such a flat ass? You have no cushion!”
I carried those comments, along with dozens more, well into adolescence and adulthood. Low self-esteem is stubborn—it sticks.
Then I met my husband-to-be. From the very beginning, he called me “beautiful” and “pretty.” Things moved fast, and within a year we moved to Los Angeles to start our life together. I knew he consumed porn and idolized women like Kylie Jenner and Kim Kardashian, but I never let it bother me. To me, it seemed like harmless fantasy.
Until the comments began.
“Babe, do you think you’d ever get surgery?”
“Your face would look so cute if your lips were a little plumper. See, like hers.”
At first, I laughed nervously. I thought he was joking. But soon, he would just stare at me, silent, watching my every move, waiting for a response. Months would pass before it came up again—and then it would. Over time, he had me questioning myself, even contemplating breast implants, something I had only thought about casually in the past. When I told him firmly, “Absolutely not,” it should have been the end.
We got married, moved apartments, shared our fears, our traumas, our dreams. He seemed perfect—or so I thought. Then came my 27th birthday. He led me into the storage closet of our tiny LA apartment.
“Surprise!” he said. He handed me a white envelope, with “I love you!” written in ink across the top. I opened it, expecting a card, maybe a small gift. Instead, I found hundreds of dollars in cash.
“I saved it. For your new boobs!”
Rage took over my body. He looked confused. “What? You’re really not going to get breast implants for me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
And just like that, in one sentence, my marriage was over. Not immediately, not in dramatic fashion—but in that moment, I knew I could not be with someone who pressured me to change my body for him. I love myself too much to surrender that power.
The final parting words on my way out of our apartment were almost comical:
“Come back. You could just get lip fillers instead!”
I laughed, rolled my suitcase to LAX, cried to my mom, healed, and—most importantly—thrived. With small boobs, might I add.
Ladies, never feel pressured to alter your appearance for a man’s approval. You are already beautiful. And if you choose surgery for yourself, that’s perfectly fine—just make sure it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.
