Take It Easy on Yourself
Breastfeeding was a struggle from the beginning. Why was it so hard to let go? I felt a mix of desperation and shame over my feelings.
The first sign that breastfeeding might not come naturally for me appeared right after I gave birth to my son. A group of women — nurses, a midwife, my birth coach — hovered around me, attempting to help the baby latch. Their efforts seemed normal: a fussy newborn, still messy from birth, adjusting to a new world. I couldn’t fathom that this process would go smoothly.
“There he goes,” one of them might have said. Or maybe, “He almost latched!” In some way, the baby made contact with my breast. My uterus ached. I was tired and anxious to know his weight. He had arrived faster than I expected, leaving me in shock while someone stitched up my labial tears. It was overwhelming.
A day later, a pediatrician with a thin ponytail presented me with a dilemma: my baby had lost nearly ten percent of his birth weight. My milk supply was inadequate. Would I prefer using a bottle or a supplemental nursing system? The latter seemed complicated, so I opted for the bottle.
Three tough months, one procedure for tongue and lip ties, consultations with two lactation specialists, one craniosacral therapist, thousands of dollars, and countless hours of crying and pumping later, I conceded that my baby preferred the bottle over breastfeeding.
Our culture reveres parenting, portraying it as something inherently good — and not having children, in stark contrast, is often viewed as strange. Yet, those of us who choose to become parents do so for selfish reasons; we live in a time when having kids serves personal desires rather than practical purposes.
While we may acknowledge that choosing to procreate is a selfish act, we still cling to the notion that good parenting equates to selflessness. We define motherhood especially as an ongoing exercise in self-sacrifice. But if our motivations for having children stem from our own desires, how can we be expected to relinquish those desires the moment they are born? How can we seek the experience of parenthood without attachment to how that experience unfolds?
Forty-eight hours post-delivery, my breasts became engorged, but a few days later, they softened, yielding only drops during pumping. I was placed on a grueling “triple feed” regimen — nurse, pump, bottle feed, repeat every three hours.
A week later, I consulted a lactation specialist. My pump was broken, and the baby was using a “nipple shield” offered by the nurses as a temporary solution. Neither was stimulating my breasts enough to produce milk. The lactation consultant sent me home with a hospital-grade pump and warned that my supply might not recover. I sobbed on the way home.
Later that day, during a pediatric checkup, the doctor rolled her eyes. “Just keep trying to nurse,” she advised. I consumed oatmeal and avocado, took supplements, massaged my breasts with warm cloths, and endured “power pumping” sessions for an hour straight. I scoured the internet for tips on increasing milk supply and stories of women who had given up versus those who struggled for months before finding success. I even searched for how to bond with my baby without breastfeeding.
I felt an overwhelming sense of desperation and shame. Why couldn’t I simply give up? Despite knowing that formula would be just fine for my baby, it was still hard to let go.
In sharing stories with other women, one common theme emerges: none of us expected to fight so hard. None were prepared for how fiercely we would desire to breastfeed. We didn’t anticipate the extreme measures we would take to make it work. We all thought we could simply move on if it didn’t come naturally. We transformed into people we hardly recognized, and none of us could pinpoint why.
I can identify distinct desires: I wanted to bond with my baby, burn calories, and experience something I assumed would characterize early motherhood. I wanted to provide him with my antibodies, utilize all the nursing items I had acquired — bras, pillows, cute pajamas. I sought to feel needed and to avoid feeling like my efforts were in vain. Yet, these feelings didn’t capture the entire weight of my experience. It transcended reason.
Eventually, a friend suggested a private consultant. A straightforward grandmother watched me nurse via FaceTime. “He’s not transferring,” she declared. “We’ll sort this out.” Following her advice, I traveled to a far-off suburb to meet a direct dentist who performed a laser procedure on his tongue and lip ties.
Suddenly, my baby became resistant to nursing. He would fuss when I attempted to bring him to my breast. I even penned a poem titled, “My Baby Cries at the Sight of My Breast.” When the consultant visited, he latched immediately. “This baby wants to nurse!” she proclaimed and left. I felt a flicker of hope, but soon he stopped again, looking around as if I had brought him for a tour.
I had set my parental leave deadline as my ultimate timeline, and it loomed ominously. I envisioned how much relief I would experience before actually feeling it. I yearned to connect with my son without viewing him as a stubborn challenge I needed to overcome.
I decided to stop. Instantly, the time I spent trying to breastfeed shifted into a murky nightmare. It was as if I had just awakened: confused, defeated, and dazed.
During this period, well-meaning people advised me to go easy on myself. I didn’t quite grasp what that meant. I was getting a maximum of two and a half hours of sleep at a time, caught in an unending cycle of exhaustion. What did “go easy” even mean?
Looking back, here’s how I might have interpreted it: I could have shown myself more compassion. Recognizing that my desire to breastfeed was more about me than my baby made me feel selfish. I believed it was a sign of my failure as a mother.
Children fundamentally need unconditional love from their caregivers. However, loving unconditionally doesn’t equate to loving selflessly.
What I wish I had realized sooner is that going easy on myself meant offering myself more tenderness and understanding. I should have acknowledged that regardless of what drove my longing to breastfeed, that longing was profound and real, and letting go was incredibly difficult. I wish I had understood that it didn’t make me a bad person or a poor mother.
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Summary
This reflection on the challenges of breastfeeding outlines the emotional turmoil of a mother who felt compelled to continue trying despite overwhelming difficulties. It explores the cultural expectations surrounding motherhood, the personal desires tied to breastfeeding, and the eventual realization of the need for self-compassion and acceptance.