“I had an easy newborn.” I’ve heard women say this so many times, and honestly, I remain confused. Having been a mother for nearly six years, I still don’t know what an easy day looks like. When my second son was about a month old, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop, tears streaming down my face. I dusted off a blank journal, hoping to find clarity among the exposed brick walls that surrounded me. I envisioned the early days of motherhood filled with a peaceful baby nursing contentedly and dozing in my arms. Instead, I felt far removed from that idyllic image, staring at my half-finished coffee, searching for meaning in the empty pages.
My first son, born on a chilly January day in 2015, spent the first two weeks of his life being held constantly. My partner and I took turns dozing off, often struggling to stay awake while cradling him. I was bombarded with images of tiny babies peacefully posed for photo shoots, but reality was much harsher. My newborn was relentless. If we dared to set him down, he would unleash furious cries—his little fists flailing in frustration. The only time he displayed contentment was when he was fed or held, which we did tirelessly, even as feelings of anger and injustice began to build within us.
I nursed him with what the nurses deemed a perfect latch, feeding him for hours at a time, sometimes two or three at once, resulting in cracked and bleeding nipples. Reflecting on that time now, I can see the insanity of it. Something was clearly wrong, but we were in survival mode, oblivious to our son’s rapid weight loss.
We chose a Family Practice for our care, rejecting the typical pediatric setups with their colorful play areas. Our physician was a kind, capable mother of two, and we were the first newborn patient in a long while. However, we later discovered the baby scale was incorrectly calibrated, leading us to believe everything was fine. It took two weeks before we learned he was two pounds under his birth weight. This realization still sits heavily in my stomach.
Eventually, I was referred to a lactation consultant. Stepping into her stark basement office, I felt ragged and terrified. Together, we weighed my son, and my heart shattered as I realized the gravity of the situation. I felt shame, inadequacy, and a sense of failure wash over me. How could I have let this happen?
Mary, the consultant, looked directly into my eyes, acknowledging my tears, and assured me, “You are a wonderful mother, and we’re going to get your baby fed.” We avoided a hospital admission, even though it was on the brink of necessity. With a tiny syringe and my pinky finger, I fed formula to my starving child. Watching him finally receive nourishment was both a relief and a source of guilt.
In the following weeks, I met with Mary regularly, attempting to breastfeed while supplementing with formula. We discovered he was only transferring .3 ounces of milk during each session, which meant my efforts were insufficient. After four and a half months of relentless pumping, I learned he had a tongue tie that required a procedure far away. At that point, I channeled my feelings of shame into finding solutions.
As my supply dwindled, I realized the formula was essential for my child’s survival. I shifted my mindset to feeding him the best I could, alternating breast milk and formula. I sat, attached to the pump, torn between pride and sadness. I relaxed when he drank my milk but tensed up when he took the formula.
The shame I felt was deep and irrational. I searched for validation and understanding, but the loneliness of that shame was suffocating. I longed to connect with another mother who had faced the same struggles, but found no comfort in shared experiences.
One contemplative afternoon in a coffee shop, I recognized my second chance. My younger son exhibited similar feeding patterns, but this time, we promptly sought help from consultants. After addressing his ties, we were back to pumping, but I refused to repeat the cycle of shame. I realized I didn’t need to redeem myself. I packed up the pump, making space for a more nurturing approach to feeding my baby.
That summer, I sat on the bed with my youngest, cherishing a quiet moment together. As I nursed him for a brief ten minutes, I savored the connection while holding a bottle nearby. The warmth of his cheek against my breast filled me with peace. The sound of laughter from my older son and husband outside filled the room, and in that moment, I knew I wouldn’t breastfeed again.
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Summary:
This article recounts a mother’s challenging journey through breastfeeding, highlighting her feelings of shame and inadequacy when faced with the inability to provide sufficient nourishment for her first child. After a difficult experience, she learns to embrace a more balanced approach with her second child, ultimately finding peace in her feeding choices.
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