Shaley Howard shares her thoughts on our attachment to our breasts and bodies as cisgender women, and how it relates to our identity, especially for lesbians…
By Shaley Howard
Ali Grant’s documentary Not Quite That left me pondering a multitude of philosophical questions. The film explores Sarah White’s experience with the BRCA2 genetic mutation, which significantly increases the risk of ovarian and breast cancer, leading her to undergo a double mastectomy. The title emerged from White’s own words: “I’m Jewish but not very Jewish. I’m a woman but people often think I’m a man. I’m a [cis-gender] lesbian but I get mistaken for trans. I’m a mom but I didn’t carry the boys. And now here I am, seeing a breast cancer surgeon, even though I don’t have cancer.”
The film delves into identity, particularly through the lens of cisgender lesbians, exploring how our bodies and outward appearances shape our sense of self. There’s no universal answer—everyone’s relationship with their body is unique and complex.
As a cisgender soft butch, my relationship with my breasts has always been lukewarm. Not quite love-hate, but more of a detached ‘they’re just there’ feeling. Past partners have complimented them, which is nice, I suppose, but they’ve never felt central to my identity. Aside from during sex, they mostly just get in the way.
There’s a societal image of the ‘hot’ masc or butch lesbian—flat-chested or barely there in the boob department. That’s never been me. My breasts aren’t huge, but they’re definitely not an A cup either. I’ve envied past partners who confidently strolled around braless in a tank top. And sports? The dreaded sports bra, where two boobs become one singular, suffocating boob-log. Sprinting full speed down the court, only to have my boob-log bounce in unison, threatening a black eye with one rogue upswing.
One particularly meaningful scene in Not Quite That features a roundtable conversation with White, her wife, and their friends. Each person, from their own unique perspective, shares their experiences with gender, body image, identity, and self-perception, creating an intimate and thought-provoking discussion.
“I felt 100% betrayed by my body when I started growing tits,” says Sue Davis. “As an athlete, I was like, ‘What is this?’ I love the diversity of boobs, but I hate my own. I’ve always felt a disconnect between how I present externally and how I feel internally.”
Tamara Adilman adds, “If you have bigger breasts, are you more attached? I’m small-chested, but I’m very attached to mine. I can’t see myself without them, probably because of the more feminine lesbian identity I’ve always had.”
Lara Volgyesi, a more androgynous-presenting lesbian, shares, “I never identified with my breasts or any part of my female body. I love playing sports and was always thankful I had small breasts. If I ever had a double mastectomy, I wouldn’t opt for reconstruction.”
The question of reconstruction is fascinating. Would I choose it? Would I miss my breasts? Honestly, I don’t think so. If removing them meant saving my life, I wouldn’t hesitate. But would it change my identity as a woman or a lesbian?
Finn Austin, who presents as a soft butch, shared a perspective I deeply related to: “When I go to a washroom, I pull my shirt tighter—almost as if to say, ‘here they are’—I have a right to be here. If I didn’t have them, how would I ‘buy’ access to spaces? Where would my token be? If I had breast cancer, I’d never have reconstructive surgery. It wouldn’t feel congruent to me.”
Since filming, Austin has undergone top surgery and now uses they/them pronouns but, to my understanding, does not intend to transition. According to White, Austin doesn’t identify with any specific category.
Stepping outside the documentary, I asked other cisgender lesbians about their relationships with their breasts. A close friend of 35 years surprised me with her candid response:
“I’ve never been attached to them. I tolerate them but don’t like having breasts. I don’t like that people can identify me as having breasts. I purposely choose shirts that mask them, and if I wear a bra, it feels like I’m accepting that I have them. Fortunately, they’re small enough not to be a source of angst. In the summer, I wear dark shirts. I’m not at a point where I’d get them lobbed off, but I barely tolerate them.”
Her candid response underscores the deeply personal nature of one’s relationship with their body.
Our perception of our appearance isn’t innate—it’s taught, shaped by societal influences. Cisgender women, especially those with larger breasts, are conditioned to see them as social currency. From an early age, regardless of sexual orientation, we’re led to believe that breasts symbolize womanhood. This fuels a billion-dollar industry dedicated to enhancing and redefining them.
Growing up in a heteronormative culture, it’s hard for any of us to fully escape these ideals. Even within the LGBTQ+ community, there’s often some level of conformity to heteronormative standards. In general, more feminine-presenting cisgender lesbians tend to embrace their breasts, while masc-presenting cisgender lesbians often feel detached from them.
Throughout my life, I’ve known many cisgender butch/masc lesbians that are visibly uncomfortable with their breasts—slouching or choosing clothing that conceals their chest. This discomfort is not necessarily about being trans, though some may have struggled with a disconnect between their body and their assigned gender at birth. Either way, these folks experience an internal sense of self clashing with an outward appearance. For many, especially those with larger breasts, their chest doesn’t align with their desired presentation, creating ongoing tension.
Our culture reinforces a flawed binary view of gender and identity. If our bodies help shape who we are, what happens when those bodies change? If we no longer have breasts or a uterus, are we still women? What about menopausal women whose shifting hormones reduce their desire for sex? For years, Merriam-Webster defined “female” as “an individual of the sex that is typically capable of bearing young or producing eggs.” It also describes “woman” as an “adult female of the human race,” emphasizing that “woman” is about the “biological sex assigned at birth.” These simple binary definitions, in my opinion, are outdated. The contemporary understanding of “woman” should include transgender women and individuals who identify as women.
In 2020, Merriam-Webster expanded the definition to include “having a gender identity that is opposite of male.” Again, this suggests that female identity is tied to reproductive organs—or to being the inverse of male. By that logic, if I no longer have those so-called ‘female’ organs, shouldn’t my identity as a woman change?
From birth, we are categorized based on biological sex. Within our heteronormative culture, outsiders have historically defined many within the LGBTQ+ community not by who we love, but by who we have sex with. Labels like “lesbian” and “gay” are classifications based on sexual orientation, reducing our identities to attraction rather than the complexities of love, gender, and self-expression. Our classification as the L, G, and B has been shaped by this narrow focus—one that centers not on the depth of our relationships, but solely on who we sleep with.
Our gender identity and sexual orientation are shaped by many factors. There is no single way to exist and no universal standard for how our bodies align with our identities. Personally, I believe that being a woman is less about conforming to traditional ideologies and more about self-identification and lived experience.
Ultimately, Not Quite That invites us to question the rigid boundaries we’ve long accepted around gender, identity, and embodiment. It reminds us that the relationship we have with our bodies—especially as cisgender lesbians—is never one-size-fits-all. Breasts, while often hyper-visible and culturally loaded, don’t define our womanhood or our queerness. They are just one piece of a far more nuanced, personal puzzle. Identity is not a fixed point—it’s a layered, evolving story. And if that story includes scars, surgeries, or a body that doesn’t fit the mold, it’s still valid. It’s still ours. In a world eager to box us in, the most radical thing we can do is claim our own narrative, in all its messy, beautiful truth.
SHALEY HOWARD is the author of the recently released book Excuse Me, Sir! Memoir of a Butch, which received the IPPY Silver Award for excellence in 2024. She’s a small-business owner and an award-winning activist in Portland, Oregon.
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