“I had an easy newborn.” I’ve heard mothers say this countless times, and I remain baffled. Approaching six years of motherhood, I’m still unsure what an easy day looks like. When my second son was just a month old, I found myself at a coffee shop, struggling to hold back tears. I cracked open an unused journal, its pages begging for thoughts that felt trapped in my foggy mind. The stark, bare brick wall in front of me seemed to offer clarity that eluded me as I reminisced about the idealized early days of motherhood—a tiny baby feeding at my breast, peacefully sleeping in my arms. Instead, I was staring at my half-finished coffee, desperately seeking meaning in my unwritten words.
My first son entered the world on a wet January day in 2015, and for two solid weeks, we rarely set him down. We took turns sleeping awkwardly, dozing while holding our tiny bundle. The image of adorable sleeping newborns, perfectly posed for photos, clashed with the reality of our relentless little one. Whenever we set him down, he would wail, his face red and determined. The only way to soothe him was to feed or hold him, which we did nonstop, feelings of frustration and injustice creeping in.
I nursed him with a latch that every nurse praised, time and again. I fed him as much as he wanted, which sometimes meant two to three-hour sessions, leaving my nipples cracked and bleeding. Looking back, I see how insane this situation was. Something was clearly wrong, but we were in survival mode, oblivious to how much weight he had lost.
We chose a family practice where we could all be seen by the same doctor, opting for a more personal touch over a pediatric clinic. Our doctor, a compassionate mother of two, welcomed us as her first newborn patients in a while, but we later discovered that the baby scale was poorly calibrated, giving us a false sense of success. Regular wet diapers and daily bowel movements kept us hopeful, until two weeks later when we learned he was two pounds below his birth weight. This oversight still weighs heavily on my heart.
Finally, I was referred to a lactation consultant, walking into a stark hospital basement with my baby in tow, feeling ragged and terrified. We weighed him together, and as the numbers settled, my heart shattered. I didn’t remember the exact weight, but the feeling of shame and inadequacy was clear. I couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. The consultant, named Lisa, looked into my eyes with compassion and said, “You’re a great mother, and we’re going to get your baby fed.” Though we were on the verge of needing hospitalization, we managed to give him formula with a tiny syringe and my pinky finger. The moment he tasted nourishment was a revelation. For the first time in two weeks, he slept soundly like the newborns I had heard about.
In the following weeks, I worked with Lisa to improve breastfeeding while supplementing with formula. We discovered he was only transferring a mere .3 ounces from each breast in a 30-minute session. I pumped obsessively for months, desperate to overcome this failure. It was eventually determined that he had a tongue tie, requiring a procedure three hours away that wasn’t guaranteed to help. So, instead, I poured my energy into finding a solution.
By this time, my milk supply had dwindled, and no amount of fenugreek was helping. I felt proud to provide him breast milk first, then supplemented with formula to catch him up. Gradually, the balance shifted to half breast milk and half formula, then the reverse. I became attached to the pump, feeling torn during each feeding. I relaxed while he drank breast milk, but tensed when he took formula, a reminder of my perceived shortcomings.
Now, I recognize that formula saved my child. My logic was flawed, but the shame wrapped around me tightly. You can rationalize your circumstances, blame systems or people, and seek validation, but the shame remains. It whispers that no one else has failed as badly, leaving you isolated. I searched for other mothers with similar experiences, but found none who eased my burden of guilt for letting my child go hungry, even unintentionally.
On that reflective day in the coffee shop, I glimpsed my second chance. My second son exhibited many of the same patterns. This time, we consulted experts right away. He underwent procedures to address his ties, but still, milk transfer was minimal, and we returned to pumping. I refused to repeat the cycle of shame. I didn’t need redemption. I packed away the pump to create space for confidence in feeding my baby in a way that nurtured us both. I grieved the loss of nursing and the provisions of my body, questioning where my desire to breastfeed had originated.
One summer afternoon, I sat with my youngest, who was about four months old. I nursed him for a short time, mainly to indulge my own desire. As he nestled against me, the sunlight filled the room, and I could hear my husband and older son laughing outside. In that moment, he looked up at me with sparkling eyes, too distracted by my presence to eat. His gummy smile melted my grief, and I knew this would be my last time breastfeeding.
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Summary:
This personal reflection chronicles a mother’s struggles with breastfeeding and the subsequent feelings of inadequacy and shame that accompanied her experiences. Despite her efforts to provide breast milk, circumstances led her to rely on formula, ultimately recognizing that it was essential for her child’s health. The narrative highlights the emotional turmoil surrounding motherhood and the conflicting desires for idealized experiences versus the harsh realities of parenting.