The Day My Childhood Ended at Twelve

Written by By Precious Ologunwa

I was twelve — still a child, but already carrying a body the world believed belonged to someone older. My breasts began to grow rapidly, far faster than anything I was prepared for. While most girls my age were still flat-chested or just beginning to develop, mine felt like they had grown overnight—big, noticeable, and four times the size they were “supposed” to be. My body was racing ahead of me, and before I could understand what was happening, the world had already decided I was no longer a child.

At home, the pressure arrived quickly.

“Precious, cover up.”

“Precious, wear a cardigan.”

“Precious, be careful.”

“Precious, stop running.”

I began wearing baggy clothes several sizes too big, believing the extra fabric would help hide my chest. I tried everything I could think of—layering oversized shirts, pulling on thick cardigans, and sometimes even doubling bras—hoping to shrink or flatten myself. Back then, I thought I was clever. Now I know I was just a young girl trying to survive in a world that had already made conclusions about me.

At school, it was worse. Teachers watched me differently. Classmates whispered. Strangers let their eyes linger too long. Suddenly, I wasn’t just Precious — I had become a body before I even had a chance to become a teenager. My confidence couldn’t keep up with the way people reacted to me. Each time I stepped into a room, it felt like my chest entered before I did.

I loved running, but I stopped participating in sports altogether. My body had become a spectacle; my breasts did the running instead of me. I watched from the sidelines, cheering others on, wishing it could be me on the field, wishing my childhood had room for both my body and my spirit.

As the years passed, those survival habits followed me everywhere. I avoided sports, hid behind hoodies, and shrank myself in classrooms and hallways. I tried to laugh softly, move quietly, or exist gently— anything to take attention away from my body. Even raising my hand in class felt like exposing too much.

By the time I got to university, I still tugged at my tops, still folded my shoulders inward, and still tried to make myself small. I felt hyperaware in every space — in lecture halls, on buses, even in the library. I wanted to disappear, but the world refused to let my body be unseen. Anytime I entered a room, heads turned. Men and boys stared in ways that made me feel objectified — as if my breasts announced my presence before my face even had a chance. I knew I was a pretty woman, but it felt like my body often stole the spotlight I had yet to earn.

Then I met Doyin.

One afternoon after class, she watched me pull at my hoodie and adjust my top for the third time. She looked at me — really looked — and said,

“Precious, your breasts are not a burden. They’re your heritage. They belong to you. Why should you be ashamed of what is yours?”

Her words sank deep. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. For the first time, I stopped seeing my breasts as a problem I needed to fix and began to see them as part of who I was. Slowly, I let go of the shame. I stopped wearing layers to hide. I stopped doubling bras. I started buying clothes that fit me — clothes I actually liked. I stood taller. I breathed easier.

Reclaiming my body wasn’t loud — it was a quiet unfolding.

It was choosing a fitted dress.

It was walking past stares from strangers without shrinking.

It was raising my hand in class without fear.

It was laughing freely again.

Each moment reminded me that girlhood hadn’t been erased — it had just been interrupted.

Now, when I reflect on the twelve-year-old girl I once was, I wish I could embrace her. I would tell her that breasts do not erase childhood. Growing up quickly does not mean you are an adult. That nothing about her body was ever shameful. I would tell her the world is often unfair to girls who experience early physical development, but none of it was her fault.

And I would tell her this:

You were always enough. Being young was your right — not something anyone had the power to take away.

I write this piece not only for myself but for every Black girl whose body feels like it’s racing ahead of her spirit. You remain a child as long as you are a child. And when womanhood finds you, your body is not a curse. It is yours — and that alone makes it worthy.

Girlhood shouldn’t end the moment your body changes.