“Right here?” I hesitated.
“Yep. Why not?”
To my left, my father-in-law was savoring a plate of scrambled eggs. To my right, my partner was cutting up a waffle for our little girl. I glanced down at my newborn son, just four days old, and gently stroked his tiny hand, inhaling deeply. Across the table, my mother was giving me a look that could pierce through steel.
The pressure was overwhelming.
With a throbbing uterus, sore nipples, and a whirlwind of postpartum emotions, dining out with family so soon after giving birth wasn’t exactly ideal.
“I think I’m going to step outside,” I said.
“You sure?” my partner asked, coffee cup in hand.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I replied, grabbing the baby bag and carefully placing my son in the carrier. As I stepped into the brisk November air, tears welled in my eyes. I furiously texted my best friend while walking to the car; I felt like I was failing at breastfeeding in public, and it made me furious.
Just four days postpartum, the reality of breastfeeding was consuming me. It’s true what they say: no amount of reading or advice can fully prepare you for the mixture of struggles and triumphs that come with nursing.
This was my second child, so I should have had it down, right? Wrong. With my first child, I ended up exclusively pumping after a challenging nursing journey. The breast pump became my constant companion—more than my partner, really. I pumped in airports, conference rooms, hotels, lobbies, and cars for over a year. When I found out I was pregnant with my son, I yearned to nurse him instead.
He was born at home with the support of a midwife and her assistant, and he latched on like a pro. To ease my worries, I visited a lactation consultant the day after his birth. Not just any consultant—a black one. This was critical for me. After working with various consultants in the past, I sought someone who could relate to my experiences.
Tanisha came highly recommended by my midwife, and when she welcomed us into her office, it felt like I was connecting with a sister.
“My breasts are pretty large,” I confessed.
She chuckled.
“And my nipples are kind of flat too,” I added, prompting another laugh from her. She encouraged me to get comfortable with my sleepy baby.
“I don’t even know if I can do this—I struggled with my daughter,” I admitted.
“Girl, we’re not bringing those negative vibes in here,” she said with a smile.
We talked, she guided me gently, and even cradled my baby. When my partner stepped out to fetch the diaper bag, she showed me her own breasts, which looked just like mine. Those same breasts had nourished her four children. It may sound odd, but seeing her gave me hope. She assured me that if she could nurse, then I could too.
Now, nine months later, I’m still nursing my son and pumping when I’m away from him. I juggle his needs alongside those of my preschooler while managing work and sleep deprivation. Looking back on that first attempt to nurse in public makes me laugh; now, I can nurse him with ease, whether at home or out.
Representation matters. Sometimes, you need to see someone who looks like you to believe that you can succeed. As a black mother breastfeeding, having a lactation consultant who reflected my identity transformed my experience.
My hope is for other mothers like me—whether you’re a black mama, a mother with larger breasts, or someone with concerns about nursing—to find the support you need. If I ever encounter a mama in that same struggle, I won’t hesitate to show her my own experience, letting her know that if my breasts can nourish my babies, hers can too.
August 25-31 marks the sixth annual Black Breastfeeding Week, celebrating diverse breastfeeding experiences. To learn more, visit blackbreastfeedingweek.org.
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