When Breastfeeding Isn't Enough

After becoming a mom, I began curating my social media feeds to include portrayals of women of color - mothers - in their truth, rawness, and beauty. As a result, throughout my 3rd pregnancy I saw a constant stream of peers - women who look like me - giving birth, nursing their infants (and toddlers, too), and all around being imperfectly badass mothers. It's been so encouraging and empowering.

So when EmBabyTheThird came into the world and the two of us nursed together for the first times, the only thoughts in my mind were of the nourishment I could lovingly provide for my child. I wasn't even bothered by the tenderness of my breasts or the awkward fumbling on both of our parts. My baby was here and, together, we were working it out. My husband even acknowledged the apparent ease with which we managed to take on nursing (especially in relation to our first two children). I could feel that things were different - I was different - this time.

So 3 days later, as the babe & I sat in the pediatrics room, where the man in front of me declared my child to be underweight and that I would need to - once again - supplement my breastmilk, it was like a switch was flipped. The dam that separated me from my previous nursing experiences was broken and the painful memories, emotions, and insecurities came flooding back in an instant. Suddenly, every decision I'd made and word I'd spoken in regards to my 3-day-old was evidence to determine whether I was a good mom. I found myself subconsciously trying to either hide or defend those choices. There in front of the doctor I fought back tears and kept my face turned away to preserve what little dignity I felt remained. But on the drive home, where there was no one to hide from, I let the tears flow. I mourned the loss of my own beautiful and empowering story of breastfeeding success. I sunk beneath the weight of the thought that this time would not, in fact, be different.

That day multiple friends reached out to me, checking in, asking how I was doing. My response was brief and honest: I was struggling, processing. In turn, my village responded with resounding love and support. Instead of feeling angry and depressed, I found myself abounding with tools, encouragement, and a supply of supplemental breastmilk available to me and my baby. I was reminded that mothers throughout history and even still across the globe are supported by their villages in this very same way. When needed, other mothers step in to help raise, nurture, and even nurse their babies. It's simply how things work.

As I write this 7 days later, we are halfway through World Breastfeeding Week, EmBabyTheThird has plumped back up to her birth weight, and I recognize that every moment I am able to nurse my child is a blessing. Most importantly, I finally realize that not breastfeeding (whether by choice or not) is neither a failure or inadequacy on my part. If my child is healthy, nourished, and thriving, then I am doing my job as a mother. Period.

And to all the mamas doing what it takes to keep your babies alive: you are a badass mother.