Fake boobs get a bad rap.
I mean, they look great (most of the time). They give their owners confidence. They create jobs (like actual medical jobs, not whatever you were thinking Steve! Get your head out of the gutter.)
They’re an all-around win for everyone. But there’s that word, “fake,” which drags it all down.
We hate fake.
It’s the first jab we throw when sensing inauthenticity, or like we’re being manipulated, or when something appears to be less than its original (or our expectation of it).
But, whether we know it or not, our hatred of fake seeps into our perceptions of self. It keeps us small, sometimes stuck, and often closed off from becoming everything we can be.
A good place to begin is at the firm, supple center of the word itself.
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