My pre-baby boobs were perky, reliable, and sat exactly where boobs are supposed to sit without needing architectural support.

Now, after pregnancies, breastfeeding, and years of being treated like an all-you-can-eat buffet by tiny humans, they look tired.

Not regularly tired. Like two sad pancakes fighting gravity, tired. Honestly, they deserve a cup of coffee and several years of paid leave.

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And before anyone says it, yes, I know they did something incredible. They fed my babies, comforted them, and kept them alive. I am grateful for them. Deeply grateful. Amazed, actually.

But still, I look at them sometimes and think, "Wow. You girls really went through it".

Because apparently, motherhood is the only experience where women are expected to feel nothing but empowerment about every permanent physical change.

Stretch marks? Beautiful. Hair loss? A blessing. Boobs that now hang low enough to accidentally dip into your toddler's bathwater? Warrior wounds.

The acceptable script for motherhood is gratitude. We are supposed to speak about our postpartum bodies like magical temples of womanhood and fertility.

And yes, parts of that are true. Our bodies are incredible.

But sometimes they are also confronting. Sometimes they feel unfamiliar. Sometimes you look in the mirror and think, "Wow. Those used to point upwards."

Quietly, privately, a lot of us are grieving parts of ourselves we no longer recognise, and a lot of the time my body doesn't feel powerful; it just feels used.

There's a photo of me from before kids that I sometimes stare at like it's evidence in a cold case investigation. Not because I think I was hotter overall or because I desperately want my old body back, but because I recognise that body as mine in a way I don't always recognise my own anymore. Specifically, my boobs. My beautiful pre-baby boobs.

Now? Motherhood absolutely humbled them.

No one respects the work my boobs have done more than me. These girls have seen combat. They fed my babies at 3am while I cried from exhaustion and Googled: "Is cluster feeding a form of psychological warfare?"

They soothed sickness, tantrums, teething, and every emotional crisis my children have ever experienced. Frankly, they deserve a retirement village somewhere coastal, where nobody ever touches them again.

But when I am being fully honest, I still hate my postpartum boobs sometimes.

Apparently, we are not supposed to say that out loud.

Nobody really talks honestly about the grief that can come with your body changing after kids, particularly your boobs.

Not in a dramatic, self-hating way, but in those small moments that creep up unexpectedly.

Standing topless after a shower. Trying on bras under fluorescent fitting room lights specifically designed to humble women, changing in front of your husband who fell in love with perky boobs.

It is not even about wanting perfection. It is the unfamiliarity that gets me. Mentally, I still feel like myself. Then I catch a glimpse of myself topless and feel personally attacked by gravity.

Motherhood changes you physically so quickly that sometimes your reflection feels disconnected from the version of yourself you still carry around in your head.

And yes, I know bodies change with age. I understand this is normal. But "normal" does not automatically make something emotionally easy to accept. I also think there is pressure now to perform body positivity in a way that leaves very little room for honesty.

Some women genuinely love their postpartum bodies, and that is wonderful. But there are also women sitting quietly in the middle, feeling both grateful and grieving at the exact same time.

And to be even more honest, some of this insecurity exists in relationships, even healthy ones.

One night, my husband jokingly said, "I love your boobs, but our children have sucked the living sh*t out of them."

Which, to be fair, was both hilarious and devastatingly accurate.

I laughed because, honestly, what else do you do? But it also stayed with me because hearing someone else say out loud the exact thought you privately had about yourself hits differently.

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Honestly, I will probably get a breast lift one day.

Not because my husband wants me to. Not because motherhood ruined me. Not because I am chasing perfection or trying to look 22 again. I just miss feeling like myself when I look in the mirror.

And judging by the conversations women have privately but almost never publicly, I know I am not the only one.

So yes, you can hate your postpartum boobs while still feeling deeply grateful for everything they've done.

You can miss the body you once had while loving the children that changed it.

You can get a breast lift and still love yourself.

You can leave your body exactly as it is and feel completely confident.

There is no perfect way to feel about your postpartum body, and maybe that is the part we need to start saying out loud more often. Motherhood can fill you with gratitude and grief at the exact same time — and neither feeling cancels the other out.

So I'm just going to say it – I don't like my postpartum boobs; they don't make me feel powerful, and it's OK to say that.

Image: Getty Images.