“Right here?” I hesitated.
“Yeah. Why not?”
To my left, my father-in-law was savoring a plate of scrambled eggs, and to my right, my husband was slicing up a waffle for our daughter. I glanced down at my newborn son, just four days old, and ran my thumb over his tiny fist. I took a deep breath, but my mother’s piercing stare was like a spotlight on me.
The weight of it all. So much weight.
Between my aching uterus, sore nipples, and the rollercoaster of postpartum emotions, dining out with family just days after giving birth was clearly a mistake.
“I’m going to step outside,” I said.
“Are you sure?” my husband asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll be fine.”
I grabbed the baby bag, carefully placed my son in his carrier, and headed to the car. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I angrily texted my best friend as I stepped into the brisk November air.
I was struggling to breastfeed in public, and I was furious about it.
You see, I was four days postpartum, and nursing was consuming my every thought. Forget what the books say; lactation consultants are great, but no one can truly prepare you for the emotional and physical challenges of breastfeeding.
This was my second rodeo. You’d think I’d have it all figured out, right? Nope. With my first child, I ended up exclusively pumping after a less-than-successful nursing experience. I pumped everywhere—airports, conference rooms, and even in cars. I did it for over a year, and when I got pregnant with my son, I longed for a different experience.
He was born at home with a supportive midwife, and he latched like a pro. To ease my anxiety, I arranged to meet with a lactation consultant the very next day. Not just any consultant—a Black one. This was crucial for me.
Layla came highly recommended, and as soon as she welcomed us into her office, it felt like meeting a sister.
“My breasts are huge,” I confessed.
She laughed. “And my nipples? Let’s just say they’re not winning any beauty contests.”
Her laughter eased my nerves as she guided me into a comfortable position with my sleeping baby.
“I’m not sure I can do this. I struggled with my daughter.”
“Girl, we’re not having any negative energy in here!”
We chatted, she coached me gently, and when my husband stepped out for the diaper bag, she showed me her own breasts. They looked just like mine—the same breasts that had fed her four children. It might sound odd, but seeing that gave me hope. She assured me that if she could do it, so could I.
Fast forward nine months, and I’m now nursing my son, pumping when I’m away, juggling his demands alongside a preschooler, all while navigating work and sleepless nights. I chuckle when I remember my first public nursing attempt—it was a disaster. Now, I can nurse him almost effortlessly at home and in public.
Representation truly matters. Sometimes, you need to see someone who looks like you to believe in your own ability. As a Black mom breastfeeding, finding a lactation consultant who shared my background changed everything for me.
My hope is that when other moms—especially Black moms, those with big chests, or imperfect nipples—feel frustration, they can find the support they need. And if I ever meet a mom in that exact situation, I won’t hesitate to show her my own breasts to encourage her, saying, “If my breasts can nourish my babies, yours can too.”
August 25 to 31 marks the sixth annual Black Breastfeeding Week. To find out more, visit the link.
In summary, representation is vital in the journey of motherhood, especially for Black moms navigating the challenges of breastfeeding. Seeking support from those who understand your unique experience can make all the difference. Whether it’s through community or resources, the road shouldn’t be traveled alone.