As I drove home from a long day at work, a text from my husband, Mike, sent my heart racing. He was at home with our seven-month-old daughter, Lily, and texted, “How long until you’re back? We had a situation with the milk.” Panic washed over me, and I immediately called him, asking, “What do you mean by a situation with the milk?!”
Mike had taken a bag of frozen breast milk out of our chest freezer and, after warming it, discovered it had a strange smell. He checked multiple bags, each from different months, and they all seemed spoiled. (Yes, I tasted it—don’t judge.) When I got home, I confirmed my worst fears: the milk was off.
The evening slipped away in a blur as I anxiously awaited more bags to thaw. My mind raced, replaying every possible scenario that could have gone wrong. We hadn’t experienced any significant power outages, nor had I left any milk out before freezing. Mike noticed my distress and asked if I was alright. I shrugged, struggling to articulate the whirlwind of emotions I was feeling. In that moment, I realized I was in mourning.
I was mourning the potential loss of about 500 ounces of milk—roughly 20 days’ worth—that I had painstakingly pumped over the past six months. Saying it out loud felt almost trivial. Who grieves over milk? But I wasn’t simply upset about the milk itself; I was reflecting on the countless hours spent pumping in a chilly, stark office room, the monotonous routine of cleaning pump parts and bottles—a never-ending cycle. The investment in the chest freezer solely for milk storage, the health challenges I faced, and the personal sacrifices made—all to ensure my baby was nourished and content.
To provide some context, I have an oversupply of breast milk, which means I produce more than enough. Some mothers might envy this situation, and I’m aware of that every day. However, an oversupply comes with its own set of challenges.
Last summer, after several nights of waking up painfully engorged, I developed a clog in my left breast that refused to budge. I spent hours in the shower, massaging the hard lump, trying everything from supplements to nursing in awkward positions. Eventually, the lump became red and warm, prompting a visit to the doctor, who prescribed antibiotics for mastitis, a breast infection.
A week later, I returned to the doctor with a fever and underwent an ultrasound, which revealed an abscess. Thankfully, the doctor was able to aspirate it without surgery, diagnosing it as a staph infection, and with a stronger antibiotic, I was back to normal within weeks. Throughout this ordeal, I managed to nurse Lily, all while fretting about our breastfeeding relationship and whether it would survive this complication. It was an emotional roller coaster, echoing the distress I felt the night before about the milk situation.
My experience is far from unique. I’m fortunate to have friends who are also new mothers, and we often share our struggles. One friend pumps for hours overnight to ensure she has enough milk for daycare. Another has to stick to a strict diet due to her baby’s food allergies. One of my friends exclusively pumps, while others face challenges that prevent them from nursing at all, despite their relentless efforts.
We utilize nipple shields, specialized pillows, and hospital-grade pumps, and we join support groups. Some of us bake lactation cookies and consume oatmeal daily, even when we tire of it, in hopes of boosting milk production. We endure the initial painful weeks when nursing feels like a trial, and we rise multiple times each night while others sleep soundly.
All the while, we bear the heavy responsibility of keeping another human alive—our most significant role as mothers. We often conceal the emotional burden associated with breastfeeding beneath our weary smiles and attempt to discreetly nurse our infants in public.
Fortunately, Lily drank the defrosted milk today. With the support of an incredible online community, I learned that I likely have high lipase levels in my milk, a harmless condition that can cause milk to taste off when chilled. As long as she continues to drink it, we’re in the clear.
However, the emotional weight of last night still lingers, highlighting how deeply invested I am in this breastfeeding journey. Beyond the hours spent producing and storing milk, I cherish the unique bond formed through nursing. I am genuinely grateful for the opportunity to breastfeed my daughter, despite the challenges that come with it.
To all the mothers grappling with the emotional complexities of breastfeeding—whether you produce too much, not enough, or choose to forgo nursing entirely—I see you and resonate with your experiences. You are doing your best every day, and that is more than enough.
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Summary
Breastfeeding can take an emotional toll on mothers, as evidenced by personal experiences of loss and challenges. Many mothers struggle with the physical and emotional aspects of milk production, each facing unique challenges. The bond created through breastfeeding is profound, and it’s essential to recognize and support one another in this journey.