Tonight marked a significant milestone in my journey as a mother: I nursed my little girl for the last time. It’s a moment I had been anticipating for a while, but I just wasn’t ready to let go. I crafted countless excuses to prolong our nursing sessions—“We have a vacation coming up, and I want to nurse her on the plane,” or “She still has a couple of teeth coming in,” or “Since I nursed her this morning, I can’t stop now.” But this morning, I woke up with clarity. I knew today was the day; it was time to move on.
Our journey together has been anything but easy. Even before her arrival, I sensed that she would test me. My plans for a peaceful hypnobirth fell apart when she stubbornly stayed in the breech position, leading to a scheduled C-section. This left me bedridden for four weeks, nursing her almost exclusively. From the very first night in the hospital, she cried frequently. Despite being in my arms nearly every moment for the first three months, it felt like all I did was comfort her tears.
During those early days, I struggled with postpartum depression. It’s astonishing how something you’re meant to cherish can sometimes bring such overwhelming darkness. I loved her, but it was more of a sense of duty; “You’re here, and I wanted you, so I guess I’ll care for you.” My son was just 25 months old when she was born, and I often found myself resenting her for taking time away from him. I thought a two-year gap would bond them, but I never anticipated how much I would miss my son.
Whether it was her inherent nature or the energy she absorbed from me, she always seemed dissatisfied. She cried unless she was held, rejecting the car seat, stroller, and even the bouncy chair. If I held her, it didn’t guarantee peace. We both cried, often. So, I nursed her—out of anger, out of frustration, to soothe her, to help her sleep, and to wake her up. Most days, it was the only thing I could manage.
754 days. They say time flies, but breaking it down like this doesn’t accurately reflect our experience. Surely, time stood still for us, despite the calendar saying 754 days.
Tonight, as I prepared for bed, I told her, “This is the last night of nursing. After tonight, no more.” She responded quietly, “OK,” as she latched on. I turned off the light and felt the tears welling up. This was it, I realized—the final moment. While I may have more babies to nurse in the future, this was the end of our nursing journey. There were days when nursing was the only connection I felt with her, but we’ve grown beyond that now. Somehow, we emerged from the darkness. I look at her now, and my heart swells with pride. She has taught me a depth of love I never knew existed.
I carry guilt for not being the ideal mother during those initial years, but I’m committed to making it right. I will always be her biggest supporter.
As she nursed, I sensed she understood that this was the last time. Her hands gently roamed my breast as she gazed up at me. Nursing was our bond, our shared struggle. I know in the days ahead, she may cry and plead for “boobie,” but I’ll remain steadfast. I’ll hold her close and say, “It’s OK, Mommy loves you so much. We don’t need nursing anymore; we’re doing great.” And indeed, we are.
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In summary, I’ve navigated the challenging waters of motherhood, and while the nursing chapter has closed, my love and commitment to my daughter remain unwavering. We’ve grown together, and I’m ready to embrace what comes next.