Be Kind to Yourself
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Breastfeeding was a struggle from the very beginning. Why was it so hard to let go? I felt a mix of desperation and shame about my feelings.
The first indication that breastfeeding might be challenging for me came just after I gave birth to my son. A group of women — nurses, a midwife, and my doula — gathered around, attempting to get my baby to latch. Their efforts seemed normal: a fussy, newly arrived baby, still covered in remnants of birth, overwhelmed by the sudden change. I couldn’t fathom that this process would ever go smoothly.
“Look, he’s almost there!” one of them might have said. Somehow, the baby managed to connect with my breast. My body ached. I was exhausted and anxious about his weight. He arrived quicker than I had anticipated, leaving me in shock. Meanwhile, someone was stitching up my labial tears, and everything felt chaotic.
A day later, a slim pediatrician with a ponytail presented me with a stark choice: my baby had lost nearly ten percent of his birth weight. My milk supply wasn’t sufficient. Did I want to use a bottle or a supplemental nursing system? The latter seemed complicated, so I opted for the bottle.
Three frustrating months later, which included one procedure for tongue and lip ties, two lactation consultants, one craniosacral therapist, and countless hours of crying and pumping (often simultaneously), I finally accepted that my baby preferred the bottle over my breast.
Society glorifies parenting, viewing child-rearing as a noble endeavor, while those who choose not to have children are often seen as odd. Yet, many of us who decide to have kids do so for personal reasons. In today’s culture, having children serves no practical purpose; it’s about fulfilling our desires.
Despite acknowledging that the choice to procreate is inherently selfish, we cling to the notion that good parenting must be selfless. We often define motherhood as a constant act of self-sacrifice. But if most of us have children out of our own longing, how can we be expected to release that attachment as soon as they arrive?
Two days post-birth, my breasts became engorged, but soon after, they softened, yielding only drops when pumped. I was on a grueling “triple feed” schedule: nurse, pump, bottle-feed, repeat every three hours.
After a week, I consulted a lactation expert. My pump was malfunctioning, and my baby was using a “nipple shield” that the nurses had suggested as a temporary fix. Neither seemed to stimulate my milk production adequately. The lactation consultant sent me home with a hospital-grade pump and the disheartening news that I might not regain my milk supply. I sobbed the entire ride home.
Later that same day, our pediatrician seemed dismissive. “It’s still early,” she said. “Just keep trying to nurse.” I followed her advice, eating oatmeal and avocado, taking supplements, massaging my breasts, and enduring hours of pumping. I scoured the internet for tips on increasing milk supply and read countless stories of women who faced similar struggles. I even searched whether bonding with my baby was possible without breastfeeding.
I felt a deep shame for my desperation. Why couldn’t I simply let go? I knew that my baby would thrive on formula. So, why was it so tough to accept? In hearing similar experiences from other mothers, one theme emerged: none of us anticipated such a fierce desire to breastfeed or the lengths we would go to make it work. We all assumed we could simply move on if things didn’t go smoothly, yet we became people we no longer recognized. None of us could pinpoint why.
I had specific desires: I wanted to bond with my baby, shed some calories, and experience what I assumed would be an essential aspect of early motherhood. I wanted to pass on my antibodies, utilize the nursing gear I had bought, feel essential, and not waste the energy I had already invested. Yet, the weight of these wants didn’t fully explain the emotional turmoil I went through.
Eventually, a friend suggested a private consultant. She was a straightforward grandmother who observed me nursing via FaceTime. “He’s not transferring,” she declared. “We’ll sort this out.” Following her advice, I drove to a distant suburb where a dentist performed a laser procedure on my baby’s tongue and lip ties.
Suddenly, he refused to nurse. When I offered my breast, he would fuss instead. I even wrote a poem titled “My Baby Cries at the Sight of My Breast.” When the consultant visited, he latched right away. “This baby wants to nurse!” she proclaimed before leaving. I felt a glimmer of hope, but then he stopped again, appearing uninterested when I brought him to my chest.
I set my parental leave as my final deadline. I envisioned the relief I would feel once I stopped nursing. I desperately wanted to connect with my son without viewing him as a stubborn challenge to conquer.
Ultimately, I decided to stop. Instantly, the time I spent trying to breastfeed morphed into a foggy nightmare. It felt as though I had just woken up: confused, defeated, and disoriented.
During that time, people told me to be gentle with myself, but I didn’t understand what they meant. I was getting only two and a half hours of sleep at a stretch, trapped in a relentless cycle I couldn’t escape. How exactly could I be gentle with myself?
Looking back, I realize I could have shown myself more compassion. I recognized that my desire to breastfeed stemmed more from my own needs than from my baby’s. I mistakenly labeled this as selfishness, believing it was a failure in my role 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 grasped sooner was that being kind to myself meant offering tenderness and understanding.
I wish I had realized that my longing to breastfeed, regardless of its roots, was significant, real, and difficult to release. I wish I understood that having those feelings didn’t make me a bad person or a bad mother.
For more insights on similar topics, check out this related blog post or visit Make a Mom for comprehensive resources on at-home insemination. Furthermore, for a deeper understanding of pregnancy options, the NHS provides excellent information.
Summary
Navigating the challenges of breastfeeding can be a tumultuous experience, filled with unexpected emotions and societal pressures. The author shares her struggle with breastfeeding, highlighting the internal conflict between personal desires and the expectations of motherhood. Ultimately, she learns the importance of self-compassion and understanding in her journey as a new mother.
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