54 weeks of breastfeeding

Whoever said 'there's no use crying over spilled milk' clearly wasn't breastfeeding

Earlier this week, I came across a call for stories on

Mother Love Letters

inviting people to share their experiences with breastfeeding. I quickly wrote something that captured my own journey—the start, the challenges, the shifts, and ultimately, how it ended—and submitted it. That piece is now live, and it’s what inspired this longer, more polished reflection. I’m honored to be included.

You can read it, along with other wonderful stories, here.

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I honestly hated breastfeeding at first, and I had no idea how long I would last. It really is, as many would say, was an absolute labor of love. I was not prepared for any of it, and I didn't even deal with any "issues." On paper, things were fairly straightforward: an immediate latch, no tongue tie issues, fairly decent supply, etc.

Our first day in the hospital after my 25-hour, 11 p.m. birth, everything seemed to be going well. I don’t remember much. I slept when I could, held my son when he wasn’t sleeping (and a bit when he was). I ate a massive Italian hero¹ for lunch and 3 salmon avocado rolls for dinner. I took the best and also most difficult shower I’ve ever taken in my life. The moments with our son were sweet, and I had no idea what was waiting for me.

That night, however, things took a sharp turn. And this ‘sharp turn’ is, honestly, very normal newborn stuff, but it was our first foray into what having a newborn is really like.

1. immediately after giving birth, 2. my italian hero, 3. after that first sweet night, 4. the morning after that second rough rough night...

At 1 a.m., the hospital lactation consultant loudly barged into our room and woke me up to ask how feeding was going. He’d just finished eating about 45 minutes ago, and I was planning on waking him up at the two hour mark. My son stirred, and she loudly announced “look! He’s awake".

He wasn’t awake, but she took his swaddle off and handed him to me anyway. I was dumbfounded, and can’t remember exactly what I said. Something like “well, he’s awake now”.

I fed him, tried to put him back down, but at that point all hope was lost. I can’t be sure the incident with the lactation consultant actually set all of this off, but in my mind they are absolutely connected.

He became inconsolable, and so I continued to feed him. He’d eat, doze off in my arms, and wake up the second I tried to put him down, starting the whole cycle over again². This lasted until about 6 a.m., when he finally calmed down and fell asleep. Almost immediately after, the nurses came in to check my vitals as I drifted off to sleep, finally. I begged them to wait to check his. Thankfully, they obliged.

The lactation consultant came back and asked how things were going. I told her that I hadn’t slept since she left. “Yeah, that’ll happen,” she said, irritatingly nonchalantly.

We asked if they had any formula we could supplement with at the hospital and if I could pump to make up for it. The lactation consultant said she didn't recommend it, but I could try to hand express if I wanted to, and that she’d bring me containers to hand express into. When she brought those containers, I asked if we could try formula. She said she'd check back later. She never came back.

Our first night home from the hospital was worse—I don't think any of us got any sleep. My son was cranky, my nipples felt raw, and I wanted him, more than anyone else, to get some sleep.

I'd taken a small shift to sleep while my husband held him at around 5 a.m., and at about 7 a.m., my husband was doing the same. My son woke up, started stirring, and I started nursing him again. He was latching but crying in between. I looked at my watch—8 a.m. We were due at the pediatrician in an hour.

I hobbled downstairs (because you know, three days postpartum) and grabbed a bottle of pre-made formula I had on hand, that I'd totally forgotten about, that was sent to me from something I must've signed up for. I fed my son half an ounce, and then another half ounce, and watched as he happily ate. I cried.

My husband woke up just as our son finished eating and started dozing off to sleep.

"I know you didn't want to do that," he said, "but what's best for you is what's best for him here."

I cried again. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear that—the permission to take care of myself, and realizing that that's how I show up for my son. I've carried that with me until this day.

My milk came in 1-2 days later, and started to get the hang of nursing. I slowly gained confidence and realized I did know what I was doing. Amidst the sleepless nights and the unpredictability, breastfeeding became a constant. I breastfed, pumped, and altogether, slowly but surely, started figuring it all out.

those early early days: lots of meals for everyone, some supplementation, more than one fashion faux paux, pumping

At six weeks postpartum I ended up getting mastitis. “This is it,” I thought. “This is where we stop this journey.”

But then something happened. As I fought through the horror that is mastitis, I became more determined to push through. I became more protective of my time with my son, and more on nursing as an act, a choice. As I diligently protected that time, breastfeeding slowly shifted from being a chore to being a privilege. What used to make me feel trapped and small started to help me feel grounded and whole.

mastisis, gaining confidence

I met other mothers³ and gained confidence to nurse in public, without a cover. I built a stash for when I went back to work. I accidentally left the freezer door open, and a good deal of my stash needed to be used quickly. We used all but one bag⁴, that got lost in the back of the fridge, and I replaced every feed with a pump while we got through it. I cried. The person who said “there’s no use crying over spilled milk” clearly did not breastfeed and was clearly not talking about breastmilk.

nursing in public, pumping (including doing so with a daycare virus), stashing, cleaning, etc

I went back to work four months after my son was born (a gift in America, an embarrassment most anywhere else) and the first item I added to—and then crossed off—my to-do list was placing three ‘pumping’ blocks on my calendar every day: 10 a.m., 1 p.m., 4 p.m. I unapologetically named them ‘pumping’. Not ‘busy’, not ‘block’, but ‘pumping’.

My co-workers rarely booked over them. I would offer to move them around by 30 minutes or so for the ones I liked. The men were especially cognizant to never interfere. Thankfully, I work from home⁵—that is a huge gift in and of itself.

My grandmother passed away unexpectedly when my son was six months old, and I traveled, without my son, to Europe—we weren't expecting to need to travel so soon, and so he didn't have a passport yet. I pumped and dumped from bathrooms at airports, the plane itself, a restaurant, her funeral itself. I was too sad to try to figure out how to do more than just be there. It felt important to give myself grace here, and I felt a wave of relief pass over me each time I poured my milk down a drain (or into a toilet bowl).

When I got back home three days later, I immediately nursed my son. I felt us both relax into one another. Our first full days apart since conception, I’ll cherish that moment forever for the both of us.

I’m home!

I had an unexpected work trip a month later. This time, I was in the headspace to make a bit of a stink about being away from my kid. I sent my boss a list of ‘must-haves’ if I were to attend, based on some advice from one of my mom group chats. I took pumping breaks, made my employer figure out the freezer situation at the hotel, etc. I flew with a cooler, and it added to my mental load, but it felt important to stick to my guns here and bring home the fruits of my labor back to my son.

airport pumping, hotel room cleaning, setting ~boundaries~

I got back from LA, life got back to normal, and the grind of work/pump/work/shove my face with a protein shake or sad salad while pumping/work/pump/work got old, fast. If I wasn’t working and my son wasn’t at daycare, this wouldn’t be a problem. But, that’s not my life, and here we are.

I wasn’t ready to stop altogether, but I knew I couldn’t keep going at this pace. When I could nurse—mornings, nights, and weekends—there was no problem. But the mental load surrounding pumping: washing parts, making sure everything is charged and clean, keeping an eye on my calendar—it was just exhausting. Thank goodness for the tiny desktop refrigerator my husband got for me, which was just big enough to hold a work day’s worth of milk. If I had to go to the kitchen? Forget about it.

Slowly but surely, we started introducing more formula⁶. At nine months postpartum, I dropped my first pump during the work day: I abandoned the 1 p.m. pump, 10 a.m. became 11 a.m., 4 p.m. became 3 p.m. This (very) slowly started the weaning process. I kept it on my calendar for a little while longer, and eventually replaced ‘pumping’ with ‘lunch’.

Over the next three months, I dropped the other workday pumping sessions, and by the time my son was two weeks away from one, we were at two nursing sessions only—morning or night.

I clutched on to those last two feeds for those last two weeks. The reality of the door closing smacked me in the face, and I cherished every moment I had left.

I dropped the nighttime first, right around his first birthday. It was glaringly obvious how uninterested he was but would take a nighttime bottle immediately. I wasn’t sad about that one—he was so clear about what he wanted in that moment, I couldn’t not give it to him!

final moments: in the car, at home, nursing while holding a bottle, nursing before heading out for the night

But our mornings were our time, and even after his first birthday came and went, I knew I wasn’t totally ready. Besides a few trips and obligations, for that first year, I spent every morning nursing my son, no matter what. I still absolutely cherish that time. Our mornings were our time, a constant throughout the year. Quiet, introspective, and ours.

Two weeks after his first birthday, on August 7th, I nursed my son for the last time at around 7 a.m. It wasn’t necessarily something predetermined, but I woke up that morning and knew that was it. After 54 weeks, I knew we were done.

The waves of emotion hit—sadness, relief, pride, and gratitude swirled around. He was fussier than usual, seeming to not be interested in nursing at all, almost as if to say, "It's alright, Ma! This chapter can close. I’m ready for what’s next"

August 7th is the last day of World Breastfeeding Week. I didn’t plan it that way, but what a beautiful way to close a chapter.

I’m grateful for the women who came before me and for those who will come after me.

I wish I could experience breastfeeding again for the first time—but this time, armed with everything⁷ I know now.

1. Sub, for you non-New Yorkers. Grinder, for you New Englanders. This Mets/Giants fan won’t be entertaining regional Philly sandwich dialect in this footnote.

2. Again, really normal newborn shit, but it slaps you in the face the first time you go through it—and honestly, each time you do, until you’re no longer going through it one day and you realize in hindsight you’re not going through that phase anymore.

3. Finding connection with strangers at 4am

4. I, to this day, still have that bag of milk in the freezer. I said I’d use it ‘for a bath’ but now it’s just the last tangible piece of this journey.

5. Yes, I had the best possible setup—supportive workplace, working from HOME, a partner who handled nights. What do I have to complain about? I know, I know! I acknowledge the privilege and also stand firm in my experiences.

6. It hasn’t fit into the narrative so far but I want to unequivocally say: formula saved my life. In those early moments I mentioned, yes, but it immediately allowed my husband to form a connection with our son while he handled bottles from 10 p.m.-2 a.m. This would give me anywhere from ~4-8 hours of uninterrupted sleep, every night, even in those early days (which is a GIFT with a newborn). Seriously — we started this like, 3 days in, and it was crucial. I eventually replaced that feed with pumped milk, but there wasn’t a moment where we didn’t have formula in the house for trips out of the house and other moments where it was just needed.

7. a brief list of some of the things I wish I knew, and what I could tell myself if I had the opportunity:

• start taking sunflower lecithin IMMEDIATELY AND DO NOT STOP!

• do something to remind yourself which side you last nursed from. The hair tie trick is actually a good one, don’t scoff when a mom recommends that.

• Use the Haakaa in the morning, every morning

• Don’t let anyone guilt you into “giving the baby a bottle” to give you a break. “Are you sure you don’t want to give him a bottle?” If it’s helpful, great. If it’s not helpful, say no.

• Buy the portable pump you want. No, not the cheaper version by the same brand you bought at first, but the actual one you want. It’s different, you will end up buying both, and it makes a huge difference in this journey.

• It’s okay to cry over spilled milk.

• Tell the lactation consultant at the hospital to fuck off, and ask a nurse for formula instead.