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This isn’t something most guys talk about openly, but I think it’s important to put it out there—for the few of us living with it and quietly struggling.
I was born with a naturally large penis. Not just “above average,” but genuinely large to the point where it shaped how people saw me, how I dated, even how I moved through life. At first, in my teens and twenties, I’ll admit—I didn’t think it was a problem. Culturally, we’re taught that “bigger is better,” and people made jokes, gave nods, or even treated it like some kind of badge.
But over time, it stopped being something funny or impressive. It started being uncomfortable—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
There was constant pressure. Literally. Sitting for too long would cause strain. Running, lifting weights, bending over—it all came with this dragging sensation, like something was pulling down on my core. Sometimes it was pain, sometimes just fatigue. And intimacy, which you’d think would be easier, became a minefield. I lost count of how many moments were cut short by discomfort or fear of hurting someone.
Eventually, I saw a urologist. After a few awkward conversations and some imaging, I was told that the suspensory ligament—the structure that helps support the penis—had stretched over time. Simply put, the weight had taken its toll. My anatomy was literally too much for the support system meant to hold it in place.
The recommended solution: reduction corporoplasty. A surgery that would reduce length and correct the tension, giving better support and restoring functional balance.
I won’t lie—hearing the word “reduction” was tough. After a lifetime of being told that size was an advantage, it felt like a step backward. I had to confront a lot of ego, a lot of social conditioning, and ask myself: what mattered more—my identity, or my comfort?
In the end, I chose comfort. I chose function. I chose peace. The surgery wasn’t easy, and the recovery had its ups and downs. There was swelling, soreness, and for a little while, I questioned my decision. But once the healing began, I noticed a huge change—not just physically, but mentally. I moved without discomfort. I sat without adjusting constantly. I stopped living in my own head.
I’m still me. And yes, I’m still bigger than average. But now, I’m balanced. Comfortable. Present. If you’re in a similar situation, just know: it’s okay to get help. It doesn’t make you less of a man to prioritize your well-being over your image. Sometimes, less really is more—especially when it means getting your life back.
Anyone else?
I was born with a naturally large penis. Not just “above average,” but genuinely large to the point where it shaped how people saw me, how I dated, even how I moved through life. At first, in my teens and twenties, I’ll admit—I didn’t think it was a problem. Culturally, we’re taught that “bigger is better,” and people made jokes, gave nods, or even treated it like some kind of badge.
But over time, it stopped being something funny or impressive. It started being uncomfortable—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
There was constant pressure. Literally. Sitting for too long would cause strain. Running, lifting weights, bending over—it all came with this dragging sensation, like something was pulling down on my core. Sometimes it was pain, sometimes just fatigue. And intimacy, which you’d think would be easier, became a minefield. I lost count of how many moments were cut short by discomfort or fear of hurting someone.
Eventually, I saw a urologist. After a few awkward conversations and some imaging, I was told that the suspensory ligament—the structure that helps support the penis—had stretched over time. Simply put, the weight had taken its toll. My anatomy was literally too much for the support system meant to hold it in place.
The recommended solution: reduction corporoplasty. A surgery that would reduce length and correct the tension, giving better support and restoring functional balance.
I won’t lie—hearing the word “reduction” was tough. After a lifetime of being told that size was an advantage, it felt like a step backward. I had to confront a lot of ego, a lot of social conditioning, and ask myself: what mattered more—my identity, or my comfort?
In the end, I chose comfort. I chose function. I chose peace. The surgery wasn’t easy, and the recovery had its ups and downs. There was swelling, soreness, and for a little while, I questioned my decision. But once the healing began, I noticed a huge change—not just physically, but mentally. I moved without discomfort. I sat without adjusting constantly. I stopped living in my own head.
I’m still me. And yes, I’m still bigger than average. But now, I’m balanced. Comfortable. Present. If you’re in a similar situation, just know: it’s okay to get help. It doesn’t make you less of a man to prioritize your well-being over your image. Sometimes, less really is more—especially when it means getting your life back.
Anyone else?
