At 37 weeks into my pregnancy, I noticed my baby had stopped moving. Ignoring the advice that labeled me as an anxious first-time mom, I rushed to the ER. What followed was an emergency C-section that put me to sleep, and the last thing I recall was the worried expression on my doctor’s face when I pleaded for reassurance about my baby’s wellbeing. Thankfully, she survived, weighing six pounds, five ounces, with lips that appeared almost artificially plump. Ironically, despite my pre-birth indifference toward breastfeeding, I found myself yearning to nourish her with my body—the same body that had nearly let her down.
I became fixated on breastfeeding—obsessive, even. The moment she squirmed, I offered her the breast. My husband would return home to find me in oversized shirts with our daughter latched on for the twentieth time that day, a miracle baby saved by the medical team. My placenta may have failed her, but I was determined to be the best breastfeeding mother imaginable. Unfortunately, this fixation almost led to my demise.
I confined myself to home, convinced that my control and safety lay in keeping her close, breastfeeding her constantly. I devoured articles about the benefits of breastfeeding, convinced I could shield her from disease and SIDS. Yet, when my daughter turned six months old and showed a preference for a bottle, my world shattered. For many mothers, this change might bring a sense of liberation, but for me, it felt like a personal betrayal. I quickly resorted to pumping, obsessively measuring every ounce she consumed.
Pumping became my full-time job. I dedicated a minimum of six sessions a day, each lasting 30 minutes, until my skin was raw. My day’s value was determined solely by how much milk I produced. If I managed five ounces in a session, I felt elated; anything less made me feel like a failure. Social invitations were met with excuses, as pumping consumed my every thought.
During this time, my daughter often cried while I pumped, but I ignored her, believing every drop of milk was a lifeline. Concern from my family grew, with whispers of postpartum depression and PTSD. My husband urged me to seek therapy, but I resisted, convinced I was merely a dedicated mother. To lift my spirits, he even invited a close friend to visit for my birthday, believing it would help me break free from my dark spiral. But when the day arrived, I canceled the plans, focused instead on pumping more milk.
Amid tears and an empty stomach, I dedicated my birthday to the pump instead of celebrating with friends. This moment marked one of the lowest points in my life. My friend, who once knew me as a vibrant person, was at a loss for how to help. I, too, was lost, a shadow of my former self—consumed by my obsession and fear.
In my darkest hours, I contemplated self-harm, not out of a desire to end my life, but a longing to escape the overwhelming weight of my situation. “Dear God, please make me a bird, so I can fly far, far away,” echoed in my mind during what I now refer to as “The Dark Ages.”
Eventually, I sought therapy, but it took time to truly heal. I realized that my last pumping session, when my daughter was 13 months old, was my body’s way of telling me to stop. Recovery wasn’t instantaneous; it ebbed and flowed like grief, and the trauma of nearly losing my daughter would often resurface. As time passed, I developed a genuine bond with her—not because of what I could provide, but because of who we were to each other. She became my joy, my life.
If you’re navigating similar challenges, there’s hope. Resources like Women’s Health can provide valuable support. For those interested in the journey of home insemination, you might find insights at Home Insemination Kit or Make A Mom to guide your path.
In summary, my journey of breastfeeding turned into an obsession that nearly consumed me. It took time, therapy, and the realization that my worth as a mother wasn’t tied to my ability to breastfeed or pump. True connection with my daughter blossomed as I learned to embrace her for who she is, not what I could give.
Keyphrase: “breastfeeding struggle”
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