“I had an easy newborn.” I’ve heard this phrase from many mothers, but as I approach six years of motherhood, I remain perplexed by its meaning. After my second son was born, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop, overwhelmed and emotional. I opened an empty journal, hoping to find clarity. The exposed brick wall across the room seemed so clear, while my own thoughts were clouded and chaotic. I longed for the idyllic images I had envisioned of motherhood: a peaceful baby nursing at my breast and dozing in my arms. Instead, I found myself staring at my cold, half-finished coffee, wrestling with feelings of inadequacy.
My first son entered the world on a drizzly day in January 2015, and for the first two weeks, we hardly set him down. We took turns sleeping in awkward positions, always with him nestled in our arms. It was far from the picturesque scenes of tiny babies peacefully sleeping through photoshoots. My newborn was relentless. If we dared to set him down, he would let out furious, tearless cries, his red face a testament to his determination. The only moments of peace came when he was fed or held, and we offered both around the clock, feeling increasingly frustrated by the situation.
I nursed him tirelessly, following the latch that every nurse had deemed perfect. But feeding sessions stretched on for hours, leaving my nipples cracked and bleeding. In our survival mode, we overlooked the fact that he was losing weight. We had chosen a Family Practice that would care for us all, overlooking the comforts of pediatrics. Our doctor was kind and compassionate, and we were the first newborn patient in a while, using their slightly faulty baby scale. It would take two weeks before we learned he was two pounds under his birth weight—a realization that still haunts me.
Finally, we were referred to a lactation consultant. I remember walking into her office, feeling ragged and anxious. We weighed my son together, and as the numbers flashed on the scale, my heart shattered. I read “failure” in those numbers. Mary, the consultant, looked at me with kindness and assured me that I was a wonderful mother. With a tiny syringe and my pinky finger, we fed him formula for the first time, and I watched as he finally settled, nourished and content.
In the following weeks, I continued to meet with Mary, supplementing my breastfeeding efforts with formula. It became clear that my son wasn’t transferring enough milk from my breasts. After months of pumping in desperation, we discovered he had some form of tongue tie, but we decided against a complicated procedure. I tried to channel my feelings of inadequacy into finding solutions. My supply had diminished, and I knew I had to adapt. I would offer my breast milk first, feeling a sense of pride with each ounce he consumed, then supplement with formula to ensure he received enough.
Despite my efforts, the shame of my perceived failure loomed large. I wrestled with feelings of isolation, convinced that no other mother had experienced such a struggle. On that reflective day in the coffee shop, I felt a sense of hope as I anticipated the arrival of my second son. This time, I sought help sooner, and he received the necessary interventions for his feeding issues. I refused to let shame dictate my choices again.
In the summer, I sat on the bed with my youngest, who was four months old. I nursed him briefly, savoring the connection while having a bottle ready. As he looked up at me, smiling, I felt the weight of my past grief lift. In that moment, I understood that my journey with breastfeeding was coming to an end.
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