Last year I made the decision to have a breast augmentation. I don’t regret it for a minute; a year on and I’ve only just stopped looking down my top and smiling at this new cleavage thing I’d heard so much about. But along with my two lovely new protrusions an undercurrent of feminist guilt has surfaced.

I identify as a feminist. I want to join in the debate and contribute to moving things forward. But the possibility of being viewed as a non-credible body image sellout by the feminist community worries me.

It seems I’m not the only surgically altered would-be feminist out there standing at the pitch sidelines, pointing at her chest, singing: “Can I join in, even with theeeese?”

A blog asking “Does feminism and cosmetic surgery mix?” by fellow boobjobber Kelly Finley gathered more than 1,300 views on skirt.com. The comments under a blog on xojane.com by an anonymous feminist writer sparked a lengthy debate “unpacking” the reasons why a woman would feel the need to do this to herself in the first place. It can’t be as simple as, “Because I can.” Can it?

I’ve never felt the need to make a secret of my choice. For one, you can’t take time off work for a “holiday” to return a week later with a couple of new shirt spuds and a hefty packet of Tramadol and it go unnoticed.

Claiming you have experienced some very localised weight gain while sunning it on a beach probably wouldn’t wash, whether it was someone else’s business or not. My friends were supportive while predictably taking the piss. On returning to work after the operation, I was greeted with a beautifully crafted boob cake and a casually sexist “spring break champion” T-shirt as my secret Santa present. However, the one set of friends I have been hesitant to tell about the surgery are my feminist ones. This, for me, is where the fear of judgment really lies. The question after admission is always the same. Why?

As a teen I was nicknamed “zoom”, because the boys in my class said they needed a “zoom lens” to find my tits. But that wasn’t the reason why. Nor was it the result of the time an ex rolled over half-asleep and muttered: “I wish your tits were bigger.” He was promptly reminded that there were certain areas of his body I’d have prefered to be bigger and it was never mentioned again. It didn’t even occur as a result of the incident when, as a young grad, my boss remarked, “It doesn’t matter how much you stick them out, they still won’t get any bigger,” when I approached his desk stretching my back. I promptly reminded him via email that he was lucky I had a thick skin and no HR department to consult.

So it hadn’t gone unnoticed to the wider world that I was a 34A, but despite the negative commentary my small boobs had attracted from idiots, I was fond of them. They were mine, they were in the right place and they didn’t get in my way.

Then I got pregnant.

My breasts went from a 34A to a 38DD and back down again. Now when I removed my bra they were not bathed in divine light with a background song of ethereal angels chorusing at their loveliness. They were rather accompanied by the slow depressing fart of a metaphorical whoopee cushion; just a bit empty, and floppy, and sad.

“But they fed your baby!” My inner feminist cried, “You are a women; this is what is supposed to happen and you should celebrate them.”

Then an even louder voice came along: “Fuck it! You have an interest-free credit card, you don’t like them and you know a good surgeon who isn’t stuffing computer parts into people’s chests.”

The brief to the surgeon was simple. Puncture repair. Not to get in the way of my rock climbing and if I fell off my motorbike, I didn’t want to be chasing an implant half way round the M60 squawking: “I need that!” He was confident he could achieve what I’d asked for, fill the skin back up, make them look natural … so I went for it and I’m delighted with the result.

Is this really a big black mark on my feminist card?

Can we surgically altered ladies join in with our body autonomy? Or have we stumbled at an ideological hurdle, and let down the cause? Are we destined to be lady-lumped on the feminist subs bench, forever justifying and questioning where we fit in to the team and asking if we can indeed join in – “even with theeeeese”?

• This article was amended on 12 November 2024 to remove a personal detail.

• Northern Lass is a pseudonym.