I love Cary's Buddhist-inspired response to the letter writer. How beyond us women-- the notion of accepting your healthy, perfectly attractive body in its present state of being. Before it gets any older, as it inevitably will, and before it is put to other uses such as pregnancy and childbirth and certainly before it gets sick or dies.

My beautiful, healthy, wonderful mom has been trying to lose 5-10 pounds for as long as I can remember, and she is 61 years old. And even after she loses 5-10 pounds she is still unhappy and still a sucker for diet-aid quackery. Her eternal "present" has been an eternal struggle, trying to "get back in shape." To some prior, happier, thinner, fitter state of being.

And the kicker is, she looks great. She always has. She has never felt comfortable with herself at her "present" weight yet year after year she looks just fine, though maybe the size of her waistline got a little thicker during the hormonal upheaval of menopause, which was 10 years ago and since then it has apparently regulated itself back to what I think is her "normal" size.

So, never mind me trying to change the subject for the last 20 years she still wants to bore me with talk about the latest fad diet and I wonder if she is still going to be yammering about her newest gym membership or diet wonder pill purchase when she is 75 or 80? Or 102? I asked her if she was ever going to be satisfied with herself? Or at least to explain what shape she was trying to "get back to?"

Was it when she was a 19 year old co-ed subsisting on jello? No, she says. I was overweight at 19. I only ate jello for lunch in those days and I never lost weight with it.

So when was she the fighting weight that she is trying to get back to? She couldn't tell me any specific weight or size. She recalled happily the times when she was the most disciplined in her work out regime (not surprisingly, who doesn't feel their best when working out regularly, whatever the numbers on the scale or belt size happen to be?) Then she lamented the various minor injuries that temporarily sidelined her from her routine. She waxed happily about some six month period in the 1980s she spent subsisting on diet shakes, almonds and celery stalks and mourned her loss of "discipline."

I find the repetitive loop of a lifetime of self-hatred and body dysmorphia so boring to talk about, and so very sad to read about. But she wouldn't call it self-hatred-- if she truly hated her body, in her logic, she would just "give up" and just "let herself go."

But I am not going to be a hypocrite. I am just like the letter writer, in my own way. Right now I am insecure about the size of my own body because I am four weeks postpartum. My uterus has shrunk to size, but all the other parts of my body remain outsized and I am still not back into my regular clothes.

And my breasts are ginormous, garangutan and leaking milk all the time. They itch.

When my newborn nurses, my left breast dwarfs his little head-- it is three times the size of his head. And it is an EE cup. It should terrify him, I think, and yet he loves it, it is the highlight of his day.

"Back when" I was working out three hours every day, my cup size was a B. When I was working out about three hours (maybe) a week, my cup size was a C. (When I work out, by the way, I need to strap my boobs down into 2 or 3 sports bras to spare myself the painful jiggling).

When I stopped working out, my cup size was a D. At all sizes, I happily rocked the cleavage (mostly as a way of distracting attention from my rear) until I met my husband and I stopped wanting that kind of attention from other men. Then I got pregnant.

When I was nine months pregnant, my cup size was an E. Now I am nursing, EE. Which I think is the equivalent of an F. Only my left breast is like twice the size of my right breast, and even if I wanted to rock the cleavage, I wouldn't because no one wants to see a cantaloupe paired up with a grapefruit.

Right before I nurse, and I am engorged with milk, my breasts are hard as rocks, painfully sensitive to the barest breeze. After my son finishes his meal, my breasts are soft and floppy. They feel better and temporarily stop leaking, so I can go a little while without those itchy absorbent bra pads (or maybe just wander around my house with the flaps of my nursing shirt open, letting some fresh air circulate).

What on earth is my point? Oh, right, Cary is spot-on with his whole answer except when he says:

"So love your breasts the way they are. If they get augmented, they are still your breasts. They still feel the same. They are just a different size."

I think that as the LW's breasts change size, whether due to surgical intervention or by more natural means, they are going to feel a lot different to her, in ways she might never have expected.

I think I dated the LW in high school.

Freethinker44 has the right suggestion. Think about other people. It isn't always "about you."

I would also suggest getting out into nature, doing some hiking, visiting some national parks and taking in the glory of the physical world. You don't need to bring along any friends or accomplices to do it-- just go in solitude, find a nice spot to and breath in the infinite beauty.

And stick with the therapy. I hope you find your happiness.