Breast Is Best… But At What Cost? My Truth About Breastfeeding

Introduction: The Things They Don’t Tell You

No one told me how breastfeeding would affect my entire life. Not just my body, but my mind, my schedule, my identity, my mood — everything. Sure, they say it’s good for the baby. Occasionally, they’ll mention it might lower your risk of breast cancer. But beyond that? No one talks about what it does to the mother.

A History I Carried

When I was 10 years old, I had two tumors removed from my breast and was told I might never be able to breastfeed. That sat with me quietly — even when I convinced myself I’d just be the rich aunt. I didn’t think I had the mom gene.

Becoming a labor and delivery nurse changed that. I learned about the full anatomy of the breast, and that milk ducts aren’t only at the top of the areola — they're all around. I cried. Deep down, I wanted to know I could give my baby the best. And now maybe, just maybe, I could.

From Nurse to Mom: A Harsh Reality Check

As nurses, we teach and promote breastfeeding. We support it the best we can. But now that I’ve lived it? I realize how little support we actually give — and how much pressure we unknowingly put on mothers to succeed with minimal preparation and even less follow-up.

Add to that the financial barrier: lactation support isn’t always covered. Pediatrician visits where you're told your baby isn’t gaining enough weight don’t exactly help either. Where is the support for us?

NICU, Pain, and Everything No One Said

My baby spent a week in the NICU. My milk came in on day 4, and the pain was unbearable. I didn’t know what engorgement felt like. I didn’t have the right flange size. And without the NICU lactation nurse, I never would’ve made it this far.

It took me 6 weeks and 4 days to breastfeed without crying every two hours. And even then — it wasn’t painless. I had an inverted nipple, anxiety during every latch, and let-downs that gave me nausea and panic attacks.

I’ve bled. I’ve blistered. I’ve been bitten. I’ve cried from exhaustion and doubt. And now that we’re weaning, I’m breaking out with acne, feeling overwhelmed, and yes — feeling depressed. Post-weaning depression is real.

So Why Am I Still Doing It?

Because I love it, we love it. She loves her “boobie.” The way it soothes her in seconds, how everything else fades away — it’s magic. She feels safe there. I feel powerful there.

But even now, as we try to wean, it doesn’t feel like magic all the time. I want to feel different. I want to feel more proud. Instead, I feel hormonal, exhausted, emotional… and grateful.

Final Thought: I Am a Fairy — Even If It Doesn’t Feel Like It

No one in my family has breastfed this long. My breasts may feel like they’re at my knees, but what they’ve done is powerful. What I’ve done is powerful. I’m just trying to hold space for the pride and the pain — both can exist here.

And so I say this to myself and any mom reading:

You’re not ungrateful because it’s hard. You’re not broken because you’re tired. You’re a fairy. A tired, hormonal, beautiful fairy — and you’re doing something only you could do.