While driving home from work yesterday, I received a concerning text from my partner, Alex, who was at home with our seven-month-old daughter, Lily. “How long until you get back? We had an issue with the milk.” My heart sank and panic set in. I immediately called him, asking, “What do you mean by an issue with the milk?”
He explained that after removing a bag of frozen breast milk from the chest freezer in our garage, it had a strange smell once warmed. He tried another bag and then another, but they all had the same unpleasant odor. When I got home, I confirmed that the milk, stored over several months, seemed spoiled (yes, I tasted it—don’t judge me).
The rest of the evening passed in a haze as I anxiously awaited the thawing of a few more bags overnight. My mind raced with possibilities of what had gone wrong. We hadn’t experienced any long power outages, nor had I left the milk out to spoil before freezing. Noticing my distress, Alex asked if I was alright. I shrugged, struggling to articulate the whirlwind of emotions I was feeling. It was then that I recognized I was grieving.
I was mourning the potential loss of around 500 ounces of milk—approximately 20 days’ worth—that I had painstakingly collected over the past six months. When I voiced this out loud, it felt almost absurd. Who mourns over milk? But my grief wasn’t solely about the loss of the milk itself; I hold no aversion to formula and would gladly use it if Lily needed it. My thoughts were consumed by the countless hours spent pumping in a stark, cold room at work, the tedious nightly ritual of cleaning pump parts and bottles—so many bottles—the meticulous labeling of storage bags, and the investment made in a chest freezer dedicated to preserving this milk. Every illness, complication, and personal sacrifice was made with the single goal of keeping my baby healthy and satisfied.
Let me clarify: I consider myself “lucky” to have an oversupply of milk, meaning I produce more than enough for Lily. In fact, this is why I was able to stockpile 500 ounces. I am aware that some mothers might envy this “problem,” and I remind myself of that daily. However, an oversupply comes with its own set of challenges.
This past summer, after several nights of waking up painfully engorged, I developed a clog in my left breast that simply wouldn’t resolve. I spent hours in the shower, massaging the painful lump, even employing an electric toothbrush! I took supplements, nursed in awkward positions, pumped, and used heating pads. Eventually, the lump became warm and red, prompting a visit to the doctor, who diagnosed me with mastitis, a breast infection.
A week later, I developed a fever and returned to the doctor, who ordered an ultrasound. I was diagnosed with an abscess and referred to a breast surgeon that same day. Fortunately, the doctor was able to aspirate the abscess without needing surgery. He confirmed it was staph and prescribed a stronger antibiotic. The entire ordeal lasted about six weeks, during which I was thankful to continue nursing Lily. Yet, the anxiety over our breastfeeding relationship weighed heavily on me, and I found myself on an emotional roller coaster, fearing that this complication might disrupt the bond we had nurtured since her birth.
My experience is not isolated. I am fortunate to have friends with young children who share similar narratives. One friend pumps nightly to ensure she has enough milk for daycare, while another navigates her baby’s food allergies with a strict diet of her own. Another relies solely on pumping for her baby to access her milk. And some mothers find themselves unable to nurse, despite their relentless efforts.
We employ nipple shields, specialized pillows, supplemental nursing systems, lanolin, breast pads, nursing bras, hospital-grade pumps, lactation rooms, and support groups. We bake lactation cookies and brownies, consuming oatmeal daily—even when the monotony wears us thin—with the hope of boosting milk production. We persist through those initial weeks, when nursing every couple of hours feels like an exercise in endurance as our nipples undergo the painful adjustment. We rise multiple times throughout the night while the rest of the world sleeps.
In silence, we carry the immense responsibility of sustaining another life—our most essential duty as mothers. We hide the emotional weight of breastfeeding behind weary smiles, just as we discreetly cover our infants with nursing cloths in public.
Fortuitously, Lily drank the defrosted milk today. Thanks to a supportive online community, I discovered that I likely have high lipase levels, a benign condition that alters the taste of milk when chilled. As long as she continues to drink it, we’re in the clear.
Yet, the grief from last night still lingers, making me acutely aware of how emotionally invested I am in this breastfeeding journey. Beyond the countless hours spent producing, pumping, and storing milk, I cherish the unique bond that nursing fosters between us. I am grateful every day for the opportunity to breastfeed Lily, despite the hurdles we face.
To all the mothers grappling with the emotional weight of breastfeeding—whether you have an oversupply, struggle to produce enough, or choose not to nurse at all—I see you. I recognize parts of my own journey in yours. You are doing your best every day, and that is more than enough. For additional insights on home insemination, check out this informative piece. If you’re seeking resources on pregnancy, visit this excellent site.
In summary, breastfeeding is a deeply emotional journey filled with challenges and triumphs. Mothers invest significant time and effort into this process, often facing unique struggles and finding solace in shared experiences. Recognizing the emotional toll can help foster understanding and support among mothers navigating this path.