Be Kind to Yourself
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Breastfeeding was a struggle from the outset. So why was it so challenging to let go? I grappled with feelings of desperation and shame over my own desperation.
The first indication that breastfeeding might be a challenge for me came right after I gave birth to my son. A group of women—nurses, a midwife, and my doula—surrounded me, attempting to help the baby latch. Their efforts seemed normal enough: a fussy, freshly born little one, still covered in remnants from birth, bewildered by the abrupt and intense changes. I couldn’t fathom how this process could unfold without difficulty.
“There he goes,” one of them might have said. Or, “He almost latched!” Or, “He’s getting there.” Whatever the case, my baby did eventually make contact with my breast. Meanwhile, I was in pain, utterly spent, eager to know his weight. He arrived sooner than I anticipated, leaving me in shock. Someone was busy stitching up my labial tears. There was a lot happening.
Just twenty-four hours later, a slender pediatrician with a ponytail presented me with a decision: my baby had lost nearly ten percent of his birth weight. My breasts weren’t producing enough milk. Would I prefer to use a bottle or a supplemental nursing system? The latter seemed complicated, so I opted for the bottle.
After three grueling months—one procedure for tongue and lip ties, two visits with lactation consultants, one craniosacral therapist, and countless hours spent crying and pumping simultaneously—I came to the painful realization that my baby favored the bottle over breastfeeding.
Our society places a high value on parenting. Raising children is often seen as a noble pursuit, while choosing not to have children is viewed as unusual or sad. However, those of us who decide to have children often do so for selfish reasons. We live in a time and culture where procreation lacks practical necessity; the motivations for having kids are deeply personal.
Despite recognizing this self-serving aspect of having children, we cling to the belief that good parenting means selfless parenting. Motherhood, in particular, is often defined by continual self-sacrifice. If our desire to have children stems from personal longing, how can we expect to relinquish that attachment as soon as they are born? It feels contradictory to want the experience of parenthood without the emotional investment in how that experience unfolds.
Forty-eight hours post-birth, my breasts became engorged, but a couple of days later, they softened, and only drops emerged when I pumped. I was on a grueling regimen known as the “triple feed”—nurse, pump, bottle feed, repeat every three hours.
A week later, I met with a lactation consultant only to find out that my pump was faulty. The baby was using a “nipple shield” offered by the nurses as a temporary aid. Neither seemed to stimulate my milk supply effectively. The consultant sent me home with a hospital-grade pump and the grim news that I might not regain my supply. The drive home was filled with tears.
Later that day, during a visit with our pediatrician, she dismissed my concerns. “It’s still early,” she said. “Just keep bringing the baby to the breast.” I tried everything—eating oatmeal and avocado, taking GoLacta capsules, massaging my breasts with warm cloths, drinking electrolytes, and enduring “power pumping” sessions. I scoured the internet for tips on boosting milk supply and stories of women who succeeded or gave up. I searched for questions like: can you bond with your baby without breastfeeding? and how to encourage your baby to nurse?
I felt a mix of desperation and shame. Why couldn’t I just let go? Despite knowing that formula would nourish my baby just fine, I struggled to release my attachment to breastfeeding.
From talking to other mothers, a common theme emerged: none of us anticipated the fierce desire we would have to nurse our babies. We didn’t expect to go to such lengths to make it work. We all thought we could just move on if it didn’t come easily. Each of us transformed into someone unrecognizable, and none of us could quite articulate why.
I could pinpoint specific desires: bonding with my baby, burning calories, experiencing something I assumed would define early motherhood, passing on my antibodies, utilizing all the nursing paraphernalia I’d gathered—bras, pillows, polka dot pajamas—feeling needed, and avoiding the feeling that my efforts had been in vain. Yet, the weight of my experience transcended these individual wants. It was irrational.
Eventually, a friend recommended a private lactation consultant. A wise grandmother, she observed me breastfeeding over FaceTime. “He’s not transferring,” she declared. “We’ll figure this out.” Following her advice, I drove to a distant suburb where a straightforward dentist lasered my baby’s tongue and lip.
Suddenly, he refused to nurse. He would cry when I tried. I even penned a poem titled, “My baby cries at the sight of my breast.” The consultant visited again, and he latched instantly. “This baby wants to nurse!” she exclaimed as she left. I felt a glimmer of hope, only for him to stop again. When I brought him close, he seemed more interested in exploring than nursing.
I had set my parental leave as a deadline, and it loomed large. I imagined the relief I would feel when I could finally connect with my son without seeing him as a stubborn challenge to overcome.
Ultimately, I decided to stop. Instantly, the time I spent attempting to breastfeed morphed into a blurred nightmare. I felt as if I had just awakened—confused, defeated, and disoriented.
During that phase, well-meaning individuals advised me to be kind to myself. Their words bewildered me. I was only getting two and a half hours of sleep at a time, trapped in a relentless cycle I couldn’t escape. How, exactly, was I supposed to go easy on myself?
In hindsight, I could have approached this period with more self-compassion. Recognizing that my desire to breastfeed stemmed more from my own needs than those of my baby led me to see myself as selfish. I thought that this was indicative of my failure as a mother.
What children require most from their caregivers is unconditional love. However, loving unconditionally does not equate to loving selflessly. I wish I had realized sooner that going easy on myself meant extending more kindness and understanding. I wish I had recognized that my longing to breastfeed was significant, real, and incredibly challenging to release. I wish I had understood that I wasn’t a bad person or mother for feeling this way.