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“This is What a Feminist Looks Like” reads my t-shirt. Proudly perched underneath are my two new boobs. That’s right. I’m a feminist who got a boob job…and I love “the girls.” I love how they finally fill a bra and bounce when I run. But I’ll confess, I debated with myself for years, wondering: Can a feminist get a boob job?

I know there is a legitimate debate amongst us; is cosmetic surgery a woman’s right or a product of patriarchal oppression? Well, that took me years to answer.

I know I am a card-carrying feminist. I have the degrees, politics, activism and career to prove it. I earned my stripes as a feminist, happily leaving corporate riches to teach feminism over eight years ago. I can cite the theories, authors, historic and global examples of the objectification of women’s bodies in my sleep. And yet, I wanted boobs.

Upfront, I will state “my girls” are not the product of reconstructive surgery. No, this was purely cosmetic. I used to have fabulous itty bitties—small and feminine. After a miscarriage then pregnancy, breastfeeding and weight loss, they were gone. Picture two tiny balloons…completely deflated. My itty bitties turned into “nitty bitties”—nothing at all.

I do love my body—cellulite, baby belly and all! The evening of my daughter’s birth, I looked down at my swollen body and wept with gratitude. I never looked back. I went from 204 to 120 pounds, through exercise and pure body-love. I’ve been happy, even topless on beaches with my nitty bitties. My lover adored me just the way I was. I fondly remember my daughter breastfeeding, smiling as she stuck her finger up my nose. Yes, I feel great love for my body.

Nonetheless, for seven years I struggled with A-cup bras that had room left to hold my keys and phone. I built a wardrobe of padded bras to fill out shirts purchased off the rack. I had to scour the Junior departmen—feeling an awkward “forever 13.” I liked being small-breasted, but it was getting ridiculous. The culmination was my “dent-a-boob” moment—the day I realized I had been walking around with a sport bra completely dented in on one side. I laughed at myself, but then got angry.

Why the hell can’t I get myself a little pair of boobies? Why do I have to fear the stigma of selling out my feminism? I could feel the heat of the feminist police down my neck, hearing their judge and jury sing: “You’re turning your body into an object. You are caving into patriarchal pressure.” I didn’t want to let them and Naomi Wolf down. I even sang this song to other women. I listened to this feminist gospel for years—slowly getting pissed at the voices and myself. This judgment began to feel as oppressive as the patriarchal messages they protest.

So I did what every true feminist ultimately learns to do for herself: I listened to my own voice. I asked myself, “What would be selling out—doing what others say I should do with my body or doing what I want?” I didn’t want boobs for the male gaze. I wanted them for myself, all mine! Men have no right telling women what they should do with their body and neither do other women—especially feminists! We believe women have the capacity to make their own decisions, all decisions. Exceptions are an insult. Now I trust myself and other women to make the decision. As a radical feminist, my person is political!  If I want to proudly implant it, bare it, cover it, adorn it, shake it or share it, that’s my damn feminist right!

No woman should have any shame in what she does to or with her body. That is subjugation. Judging and insulting other women’s intelligence is oppressive. Feminists don’t police—we empower every woman to be free, even free with her breasts. I’m not advocating for a Main Street parade of boobs (though there’s an idea), but we girls should stand together—itty bitties, proud pendulums, luscious lopsiders, true survivors, fabulous fakes and all—proudly proclaiming “This is What a Feminist Looks Like!”

Kelly supports all “the girls” and women as a lecturer in Women’s & Gender Studies at UNC Charlotte.