Today was one of those days...
My cream hoodie pulled tight across me like a stretched drum, my coat trying (and failing) to disguise the fact that my whole torso is basically shaped by two fat unstoppable forces of nature.
My partner drove us into the city. He kept one hand on the wheel and one hand occasionally brushing my knee, as if he could steady my nerves through casual touch alone.
The closer we got, the quieter I became.
This specialist wasn’t just an endocrinologist—she works with people who have "situations." People whose bodies aren't following normal hormonal rules. She wrote online that shes had several other gigantomastia patients, although nothing as large as the pictures I sent her.
Her office was warm and softly lit, which only made her honesty feel sharper.
She explained it plainly:
"Your blood doesn’t clot well enough for any major surgery to be considered safe—not unless it’s absolutely life-saving. And even if it were safe, the real problem is the speed and aggressiveness of your growth. Your breast tissue is still multiplying so quickly that stitches would struggle to hold together if growth isn't halted entirely. The skin can’t reliably stay at one size long enough to heal." ...
or something like that idk im paraphrasing
She told me that to stop the growth entirely, they would need to remove every single active glandular and adipose cell in my tits—which is nearly impossible at this scale. Anything left behind would just… keep going.
Like trimming a plant that immediately sprouts three new leaves.
And if they did try to remove everything?
She looked at me with such compassion when she said it:
“It would leave you severely scarred. And even then, there are no guarantees.”
I nodded like a polite, responsible adult.Inside, I was melting.
When we got outside, the cold air slapped me so suddenly that I stopped moving. My breath locked up. My whole chest felt like it was pulsating, warmer, activated. Like their weight doubled in one second. My knees wobbled. . My partner told me it'll be okay, but the panic crawled up my throat anyway.
It hit me, like it has so many times on this odd medical journey:They’re going to keep growing.No pause.No off switch.No safety net.
Just more breast volume every year, month, week, and day with no reduction to hold my breathe for.
The future rushed at me in a single icy wave—mobility issues, no surgery to fix it, the feeling of being trapped. I felt tiny and way waaay too enormous at the same time. Like I was collapsing inward while my body kept expanding outward at light speed.
I must’ve looked ridiculous standing there, frozen like that.
And then, somehow—the fear flipped.
It didn’t disappear… it just snapped into something else. Something absurd. Something a little hysterical. Something very "Plushy" if its not too cringe to say.
I told my partner to record. I wanted this moment on video.
"You know what, Let them grow!"
I let slip as i began laughing, my hands rising up to cup the sides of the immeasurably fat gourds my body has given priority to.
"Let them eat cake for all I care!"
As I tilted myself back, actually showing off their insane size in public, a woman was getting out of an uber and went W I D E eyed at my silly show.
Rocking back and forth, my booby bounty the clear center of my weight now, I just felt the pressure on my spine and hips and actually wished for a wheelchair, not out of worry or regret or sadness, but actually just wanting to rest them. unashamed, unafraid, just being who I am.
Honestly?It might be the most honest footage of me ever captured.
On the drive home, all I could think about was the Instagram poll I posted last month—the one inspired by another bust model talking about bulking and eating at a surplus. Her chest took the majority of the gains, and I wondered… what would happen to me? to THEM?
I asked my followers whether they’d want to see me try a “boob bulk.”
The answer was…hilariously decisive.
Almost everyone voted yes.
And part of me is still wondering:
Would my Patreon supporters feel the same way?Would they root for it?Would they worry?Would they secretly love the idea?Would I?
Because if the doctor is right—If surgery is too dangerous…If my blood won’t cooperate…If the growth is too aggressive to stitch after its all gone…If removing every cell is almost impossible…If my body is already on this weirdly tit fueled and unstoppable trajectory…
Hansel and Gretel—the smug fat girls that they are, are smugger and fatter than ever.
I can practically hear them:
“Dude, just feed us.”“We’re gonna take what we need anyway.”“Eat what you want dumbie!”
I’m not saying I’ve given in.I’m not saying I’m choosing growth.But today taught me something:
Trying to fight an ocean doesn’t stop the tide.It just exhausts you.
I'm having the same realization i keep having, in waves.
Let go.
Maybe the silly struggle/wobble with my balance in the street was my body’s way of saying:
If this is happening anyway…maybe you don’t have to be afraid every second of it.
Maybe you can just be.
-Plushy 🍈🍈