“Right here?” I hesitated.
“Why not?” my father-in-law replied, savoring his meal of scrambled eggs. Beside me, my husband was busy cutting up a waffle for our daughter. I glanced down at my four-day-old son, running my thumb over his tiny fist, and took a deep breath. Across from me, my mother shot me an intense look.
The pressure was overwhelming.
With a throbbing uterus, sore nipples, and a surge of postpartum emotions, I quickly realized that dining out with the family just days after giving birth was not the best idea.
“I’m going to step outside,” I decided.
“Are you sure?” my husband asked, sipping his coffee.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll be fine.”
I grabbed the diaper bag, gently placed my baby in the carrier, and made my way to the parking lot. Tears filled my eyes as I angrily texted my best friend in the brisk November air.
I was struggling with breastfeeding in public, and it frustrated me.
At just four days postpartum, nursing had already taken a toll on me. Everyone talks about the beauty of breastfeeding, but no one can truly prepare you for the ups and downs of putting your breast to a baby’s mouth repeatedly.
This was my second child, and you’d think I’d be an expert by now. But after a rocky experience with my first, where I ended up exclusively pumping, I was determined to do better this time. I pumped in airports and cars, all while wishing for a more traditional nursing experience when I was pregnant with my son.
He was born at home with a fantastic midwife and her assistant, and he latched on like a champ. To ease my anxiety, I visited a lactation consultant the day after his birth—one who looked like me. It was essential for me to have someone relatable.
Tara came highly recommended, and when she welcomed my husband, baby, and me into her office, it felt like meeting a friend.
“My breasts are huge,” I confessed.
She chuckled, “And my nipples are a bit flat.”
Her laughter eased my nerves, and she guided me into a comfortable position with my sleeping baby.
“I don’t know if I can do this. I struggled with my daughter,” I admitted.
“Girl, we’re not having any negative vibes in here,” she said cheerfully.
We chatted as she gently coached me and snuggled my baby. When my husband stepped out for the bag, she showed me her breasts, which were similar to mine. It might sound odd, but seeing another woman’s breasts gave me hope. She assured me that if she could nurse, I could too.
Now, nine months later, I’ve successfully been nursing my son, pumping when I’m away, managing his needs along with a preschooler’s chaos, and working through sleep deprivation. I chuckle at the memory of my first public nursing attempt—I can now nurse him with ease, whether at home or out.
Representation truly matters. Sometimes you need to see it to believe it. For me, having a lactation consultant who looked like me was a game-changer. I hope that mothers like me—Black mothers, mothers with ample bosoms, and those with insecurities—find the support they need. If I ever meet someone in the same situation, I wouldn’t hesitate to share my own experience and encourage them that if my body can nourish my babies, theirs can too.
August 25 to 31 is the sixth annual Black Breastfeeding Week. For more information, check out blackbreastfeedingweek.org.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt piece, Angela Harris shares her personal journey as a Black mother navigating the challenges of breastfeeding. With the support of a relatable lactation consultant, she found the encouragement and representation she needed to succeed. Her story highlights the importance of seeing oneself reflected in the resources and support systems available to new mothers.