I want to start off by saying that, originally, I was not looking forward to breastfeeding. I don’t know what it was but it wasn’t something I thought of as: “Wow, isn’t that magical!” Instead I thought it seemed weird. I don’t know why, I just did. However, despite not connecting with the idea, I knew going into pregnancy that I would give breastfeeding a chance, just to try it out and see if I could make it work. 

When pregnant with my daughter, my husband and I had the discussion that if either myself or baby was miserable while trying breastfeeding, then formula was always an option. This seemed like a responsible approach to feeding a child while also setting up a plan to care for myself. Well, as most pre-conceived notions on parenting go, that plan was completely thrown out of the window the second that slippery little baby was on my chest staring up at me with her scrunched up face and curious eyes; from that second a fire arose in me that I didn’t even know existed. 

I wish I could say my breastfeeding journey was easy, and is still easy, but it would be a monumental lie. The struggles I faced to make breastfeeding work took my head to a place of insane determination, and often times fairly significant feelings of despair. There was sobbing, feelings of defeat, anger at any adult in my circle who said or did something I deemed annoying, and resentment towards others who had things “easy.” I was completely unprepared to feel like a failure at something that presents as one of the most natural things in the world. 

I also now have core memories of feeling ashamed that I could not, and did not, want to latch my daughter because of the severe pain associated with the entire process. There’s nothing like fresh postpartum hormones piled on top breast engorgement, raw nipples, being attached to a breast pump, and staring at your sweet baby who you want nothing more than to simply feed, to make you have a constant string of self-loathing thoughts swirling in your head. Sometimes I think back to those dark moments and the things I went through to make breastfeeding work, and honestly, I feel a little crazy. However, most of all I feel extremely proud. 

At times I don’t know what drove me to work so hard, to push through so much pain, to find so much support to make it work, but then I think deeper, and I know it’s my daughter. Sure, my naturally stubborn, driven, and [recovering] perfectionist personality had something to do with it, but it was mostly my daughter. My daughter was the main driver. While I wanted breastfeeding to work for me so I could say “I did it,” I know without a doubt I wanted it for her.