At 37 weeks into my pregnancy, I noticed my baby had stopped moving. Despite being told by others that I was just a nervous first-time mom, I couldn’t ignore my instincts. I rushed to the emergency room, where I underwent an urgent C-section. The situation was so critical that I was put under anesthesia. The last image I recall before drifting off was my doctor’s concerned expression as I begged her to assure me my baby would be okay. There were no reassurances.
When I woke up, I discovered my daughter beside me—six pounds and five ounces of pure miracle, her lips so plump they appeared enhanced. Surprisingly, despite having previously dismissed the idea of breastfeeding, I found myself yearning to nourish her with my body—the same body that almost failed her due to a placental infection. Thus began my obsessive journey into breastfeeding.
If my daughter so much as squirmed, I instinctively offered her my breast. My husband would return from work to find me in one of his oversized shirts, the fabric pulled up to make way for our little girl, who had been deemed a miracle by the medical team that fought to save her. I was determined to be the best breastfeeding mother possible, even if it came close to destroying me.
I became a recluse, feeling safe only with her beside me, latched onto my breast, sucking the life out of me. I immersed myself in articles about the benefits of breastfeeding, convinced that it lowered the risk of SIDS and other diseases. I was relentless in my pursuit of being the best, even as it jeopardized my well-being.
By the time my daughter turned six months, she opted for a bottle over breastfeeding. While many mothers might have welcomed the change as a sign of liberation, I felt personally rejected. Undeterred, I transitioned to pumping and bottle-feeding her obsessively.
Pumping felt more empowering as it allowed me to track every ounce she consumed. I vividly recall the rhythmic—and, if you asked anyone else, annoying—sound of the pump as I committed to at least six sessions a day, each lasting thirty minutes. My day’s worth was measured solely by how much milk I produced. Achieving five ounces made me feel euphoric, while anything less made me feel like a failure.
Declining invitations from friends became routine as I concocted excuses to stay home with my pump. My daughter would often cry while I was busy extracting every drop of milk, but I convinced myself that the milk was keeping her alive.
As time passed, my family began to voice their concerns, suggesting I might be suffering from postpartum depression or PTSD. My husband urged me to seek therapy, first casually, then with desperation. I brushed it off, believing I was simply devoted to my daughter’s needs. Why couldn’t anyone see that I was just a mother trying to do right by her child?
In an attempt to lift my spirits, my husband arranged for my dear friend to visit for my birthday. He insisted that getting out of the house would help me. However, when the time came to join friends for dinner, I canceled our plans because I had only pumped two ounces, and my frozen milk stash was dwindling. Formula, my husband’s secret backup, was out of the question.
With tears streaking my mascara, I strapped on the pump again, insisting that dinner wouldn’t start until I produced at least three more ounces. After 45 minutes, I still hadn’t reached my goal. My 32nd birthday became one of the darkest days of my life.
The person my friends and husband once knew was fading. This new version of me—an anxious, pale shadow with a pumping bra—was unrecognizable, even to myself. Joy had disappeared from my life; nothing brought me happiness anymore. During those bleak moments, I even contemplated self-harm. I didn’t want to die; I wanted to vanish.
I finally began therapy a few months after my birthday breakdown. In my first session, I spent the entire hour crying. My therapist asked why I had waited so long to seek help, but I had no response. I did, however, stop pumping soon after. My last session was at 13 months, as my body had begun to reject the pump—a form of self-preservation.
Recovery wasn’t instantaneous. I would find myself in a good place, only for the trauma of nearly losing my daughter to resurface. Similar to grief, healing ebbed and flowed unpredictably. As my daughter matured into the delightful, vibrant girl she is today, I finally bonded with her—not because of what my body could offer but simply because she is my daughter, and I am her mother.
If you’re navigating similar struggles, consider checking out resources on pregnancy and home insemination for further support. For more insights, you can also read about experiences similar to mine here and explore expert advice from Intracervical Insemination on this topic.
In Summary
My journey through breastfeeding obsession nearly cost me my mental health, but through therapy and time, I found a way to reconnect with my daughter and redefine my role as a mother.