Coming Home to My Body

creative curiosity • humble discovery • passionate purpose

To feel empowered is not a concept—it’s a reclamation.
To feel safe in your own skin is to come home.
And to come home, sometimes, you have to burn the old house down.

I chose to have my breast implants removed not because of viral trends or fear-mongering headlines, but because I was dismantling an inner belief that told me I had to be more to be enough. I wanted to return to my natural body—not out of rebellion, but reverence. To love her fully, scars and softness and all.

I was also experiencing pain—an intermittent, dull ache in one breast. Was it the implant? Or was it the murmur of mold, Lyme, or co-infections that had long gone unnoticed?

I visited the original surgeon. He examined me and said the implants were intact. No need to remove or replace them. Still, I pushed for more. Paid for an MRI. The scan? “Normal.” But something inside me whispered, Keep going. I couldn’t ignore that voice.

So I did the thing no one recommended—I had them removed anyway. The surgery cost nearly $15,000, double what it took to put them in.

As I was waking up in recovery, the nurse leaned in close, her voice gentle:
“You did great. The surgery’s over. Both implants were ruptured.”

My breath caught. Tears threatened. My throat clenched. I knew it. Despite the clean scan, despite expert dismissal—my body had spoken. And I had finally listened.

A friend tried to rationalize it—maybe the rupture happened during surgery, maybe they were still safely encapsulated. But the facts didn’t matter as much as the feeling. Something was wrong, and my body had been trying to tell me. Were they moldy? Was the pain connected to my deeper illness journey? Maybe. Maybe not.

What mattered most was this: I trusted myself.

When I once asked the surgeon about breast implant illness, his answer struck me:
“I don’t know exactly what to make of it. But women come in with symptoms, they get the implants out, and they feel better. That’s all I care about.”

That humility? That landed deep. That’s the kind of medicine we need more of.

The recovery wasn’t glamorous. I was still in NP school, navigating studies and surgical healing. My chest now bore long, vertical scars. None of my old tops fit. My body felt foreign again. I cried at my reflection, wondering if I had made a mistake.

But healing has a rhythm of its own. Weeks turned into months, and I began to soften. I began to see myself again—not through the lens of what I’d lost, but what I’d gained.

Today, I celebrate my small boobs and full bottom. I wear XS tops and M/L bottoms, and I no longer care about “proportion.” I care that I feel strong, radiant, and at home in my skin. I eat to feel alive. I move to feel grounded. I tend to my body not out of punishment, but out of love.

So here’s what I know now:
Your body always knows.
The world will tell you to be quiet. That you’re fine. That it’s all in your head.
But your knowing is sacred. And when you honor it, you don’t just heal yourself—you create space for others to heal too.

This journey was never just about implants.
It was about coming home.

Your Turn.

Have you ever had a moment where you knew—deep in your bones—that something wasn’t right, even when everything outside told you otherwise?

I’d love to hear your story. Share it in the comments, message me, or forward this post to someone who needs to hear this reminder: You are not alone. Your body knows. You can trust her.

If you're ready to deepen your own healing, I offer personalized consultations and guided healing programs—you can explore them here.

With love, truth, and fierce devotion,
Jillana Michelle