I always envisioned breastfeeding as a sacred rite of passage into motherhood—a seamless continuation of nurturing my child, just as I had throughout pregnancy. To hold my baby close, providing nourishment and comfort, felt like an essential chapter in the emotional journey of becoming a mother. Before having children, my friends would joke about their excess milk, laughing about how they could “squirt” it across the room. So when my son was born, I was ready to embrace this natural process.
Yet, despite my deep desire to provide for him, reality slowly dawned that it wouldn’t unfold as I had expected. I pumped diligently, often yielding only 1-2 ounces each time. I met with lactation specialists to perfect the latch, tried various techniques, and even resorted to medication to stimulate production. Despite all these efforts, my son would scream in hunger, and a wave of helplessness washed over me each time, leaving me feeling defeated. The grief and loss I felt were overwhelming, as I grappled with the challenges of motherhood I hadn’t anticipated.
“Fed is best,” I reminded myself repeatedly, clinging to this mantra in hopes it would soothe the sting of disappointment. I knew I was providing a good alternative with formula, but deep down, I felt a profound sense of loss and grief, as if I were missing out on a pivotal milestone as a new mother. Accepting feeding alternatives for my baby was harder than I imagined.
I would longingly watch other mothers as they fed their children. One vivid memory stands out—a lunch with friends who also had a baby. As we sat in a vibrant downtown restaurant, laughter and baby coos filled the air. When her son grew fussy, she effortlessly latched him on, embodying the ease and grace I so desperately yearned for. Part of me was genuinely happy for her, but it also intensified my frustration and sadness. My own son began to fuss, and we soon realized we were low on formula. As I tried to console him, my husband hurried back home—luckily less than five minutes away—to grab more water and formula. Our friend kindly offered to feed him from her breast. In that moment, I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. I felt so inadequate, and the maternal grief weighed heavily on me.
For the longest time, I searched for external reasons to explain my struggles. I blamed the constant stream of visitors in those first few weeks, believing they robbed me of precious time to practice and become comfortable with breastfeeding. I blamed the stress from juggling visitors and my work schedule, convinced it hindered my body’s ability to produce milk. I even considered that perhaps my son was just extra hungry, needing more than the average baby—more than I could provide. Navigating motherhood with feeding challenges was not something I had mentally prepared for.
The hospital’s relentless emphasis on breastfeeding didn’t help, amplifying my feelings of failure and contributing to the societal pressures on mothers to breastfeed. But over time, I began to accept that it wasn’t my fault. It was okay to grieve the reality of not being able to breastfeed, but I started to truly embrace that fed is ultimately best. Feeding my son—ensuring he was nourished and loved—was something I could do, thanks to formula. This realization was a significant step in overcoming the maternal expectations I had placed on myself.
I discovered there were perks to not breastfeeding. I found a newfound freedom and appreciated that my son could build strong attachments with his dad and other family members who participated in his feeding routine. It allowed for shared bonding experiences that might have been solely mine had I been breastfeeding. Building bonds without breastfeeding became a beautiful aspect of our family’s dynamic.
Yet, when I found out I was pregnant with my second child, hope and wishful thinking crept back in. This time around, I promised myself things would be different. I committed to avoiding the havoc that had ensued with my first. I would limit visitors, take a few weeks off work, and focus on making breastfeeding a shared journey between me and my new baby. I wanted to embrace the unpredictability of motherhood with a fresh perspective.
I also made a promise to myself: I would give it 30 days and, if it wasn’t working out, I would allow myself to stop without guilt and supplement as needed. Those 30 days came and went. I had to accept that breastfeeding was not going to be part of my motherhood experience. Surprisingly, over time, I was okay with that. Letting go of maternal expectations was liberating.
Motherhood opens us up in profound ways, especially when it comes to realizing how little control we have over so many things in life. I learned that the children we are given are meant to grow us as much as we are meant to grow them. Letting go and going with the flow became essential lessons in my personal growth through motherhood. All that truly matters at the end of the day is that our children feel loved. Breast milk wasn’t the answer to that. Being fed, being held, and being loved were.
In embracing the unpredictability of motherhood, I discovered that nurturing isn’t defined by the method of feeding but by the unwavering love and care we provide in countless ways. “Fed is best” transformed from a comforting mantra into a profound truth that freed me from my self-imposed expectations. My journey taught me that motherhood isn’t about perfection—it’s about love, resilience, and the beautiful, messy journey we share with our children.
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