My Story
I’ve had large breasts for as long as I can remember. Actually, that’s not true. If I try really, really hard, I can recall to some lesser extent the days of simply pulling a shirt over my head and walking out the door.
I was 9.
I began developing when I was around 10/11 years old. In the 4th grade, I should have been wearing a training bra. By the time 5th grade came, I was a B cup and should have worn a bra. Most days I did, but I was rebellious and hated the ‘harness’ I was told I must wear (especially since none of my other peers wore a bra!) and so some days I opted without it. By the time 6th grade rolled around, I was a C cup and could no longer really avoid the harness unless I wanted the boys to really oogle at my chest. Years later, after the ‘girls’ finally stopped growing, I’ve “maxed out” at a US 36FF.
I can’t say I love my breasts. 
In all reality, I hate them. Once upon a time, I was a runner. But once you get to the D+ sizes, running becomes a bit uncomfortable even with the super sports bras plastering your boobs to your chest. At an FF, it’s unthinkable.
Like many women who have large breasts, I get rashes under them during the summer. I must be careful when I wear low-cut shirts — if I’m eating and crumbs fall, it’s highly likely they’ll fall into my cleavage. By the end of the day, there is usually some sort of spot or stain on my “shelf”. Being short, after washing the dishes there is usually a wet line across my breasts from leaning over and my breasts pushing against the sink.
And trendy clothing? Forget about it! My bras are utilitarian — they aren’t made to be pretty, they’re made to hold these ta-tas in and keep them close! It’s been so long since I’ve owned a bra with only two hooks in the back that I forget what they’re like!