I was twelve years old when Shakira's "Whenever, Wherever" burst onto the charts. She was already a star in Latin America with several Spanish-language albums, but this was her break-out hit into English-language pop. Some of the lines were... awkward. Including the memorable "lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don't confuse them with mountains!"
People laughed at that line. But for me it was a revelation.
Like I said, I was twelve. The pivotal age when many girls begin developing. I wasn't one of them, and I had the growing suspicion that I never would be (spoiler alert: I was right). To my young mind, this felt like a life sentence. A future where I'd never be considered hot, probably never get a boyfriend, and presumably die alone. At a young age, I had already absorbed messages that linked breast size to worthiness, love, and happiness. It might sound dramatic now, but to an insecure preteen girl, these were devastating, existential thoughts.
Then came Shakira, emerging from the ocean, kicking the desert sand, dancing on mountain tops in the music video, exuding feminine power and sensuality. It's not like I even noticed the size of her breasts. It was that line - in its audacious weirdness, celebrating a thing you don't usually hear celebrated. And the penny dropped. If someone as hot and successful as Shakira could have modestly sized breasts and still be a global sex symbol, I was going to be fine.
In that moment, everything I thought I knew about beauty crumbled. The rigid rules I'd internalized about what made women attractive suddenly revealed themselves as the arbitrary constructs they were. Different body types could be not just acceptable, but celebrated. Yes, this revelation still operated within the framework of the male gaze - but at twelve, the possibility that I could still hope to be conventionally attractive (problematic as those standards are) was the concession I needed to get over this block to my confidence.
It's not a story of traditional representation - seeing "someone who looks like me" (I don't look like Shakira, sadly) but how one quirky pop lyric arrived at the perfect time and accidentally healed a 12-year-old's body image issues. That line rewired my brain. And I mean that literally. I never worried about my body ever again.
It's a favorite song of mine, in a kind of ironic but also completely sincere way - for that line and what it means to me, the sheer nostalgia, plus that pan flute absolutely slaps.
The story doesn't end there. It's strange how we associate breasts with aesthetics and forget their practical function. Fast-forward many years. Breastfeeding was my body's plot twist - my tiny jugs weren't just needless appendages anymore. It's as if my body answered that old insecurity with "watch what I can do." They were like flowing taps, industrial-grade milk machines. Women with more traditionally enviable chests were wrestling with low supply, while my modest pair operated like a 24/7 dairy. It was a strange reversal - suddenly, these small breasts that had once made me feel inadequate were the source of some kind of superpower.
These days, my boobs are back to being unnecessary. After growing during pregnancy and shrinking back down, I swear they’re smaller than ever - just to add insult to injury. But my body acceptance runs deep, shaped by both the rejection of old insecurities and the awe of what my body has accomplished.
Somewhere, Shakira is nodding.