June 28, 2023 at 2:10pm was my last day of pumping out breastmilk. Rules allowed pumping until the 18th month, and for months I knew that date was coming closer and closer. I don’t know why I felt the need to pump that long since most people stop at 12 months, but it seemed like a good goal. 

The closure of this chapter was brought about by two factors: 1) I had reached the allowed amount of lactation time by my employer and 2) I was down to the last two unused freezer bags for milk. 

Going into the countdown to being done with pumping, I considered continuing since I’d primarily been pumping during lunch for months anyway; I wasn’t using any extra time so it would have been easy to continue. I also, luckily, still had a great supply, pumping anywhere from 4-6 ounces 1x/day around mid-afternoon. It felt good still being able to keep up the routine and put that milk away for continued use while my daughter is not with me. However, some chapters have to come to an end. 

The last of the freezer bags were dwindling and I had no plans of ordering more. Finally the day came where there were only two left. I went into that pump session with a lot of thoughts, emotions, and what felt like a heavy heart. I wasn’t just ending pumping, I was starting the course of the end of a breastfeeding journey. A journey that helped throw me full force into motherhood, that affirmed I could handle anything, and that made me confident in my ability to build a significant bond with my child. And while I have plans to continue nursing my daughter until she wants to stop, it’s still the closing of  chapter and beginning of a new story. 

So there I was, a little lull in my day, ready to have some lunch and begin the routine. I put on the pump, had some lunch, and quietly listened to the hum and thump of the pump. Psssh, hmmm, psssh, hmmm. Over and over again. As the time ticked on I thought about the hours and literal thousands of ounces of milk I had pumped since my daughter was 4 days old. I thought about the learning that took place, the pain that comes with new motherhood, about all the clogs, the blisters, the blood, the salt water soaks, and the hundreds of dollars spent on supplies (breastfeeding is not always free). My mind was reeling in the experience and tears were welling up in my eyes. If anyone had been listening in that day there would be the sound of quiet sniffles intermixed with whooshes of air, leaving one to wonder what was going on. 

As the pump time was moving towards 15 minutes, which was my standard time, I sat there just staring at the time. 14:30; 14:45; 14:50; 14:55; 14:59, 15:00. And stop. 

Pushing that power button not only brought sniffles that turned into sobs, but a huge sense of relief as well. Why would I be feeling relief, you ask? Especially since I just described the connection and bond to this experience? Because pumping is work. Pumping is time. Pumping is energy consuming. Pumping simply, is a lot. While I was crying over the end of this experience, I was also crying for relief in not having to do it again. 

I gathered up the bottles with 5 ounces of milk, walked into the kitchen, and set them down on the counter. I opened up the drawer with the milk bags and pulled out the last two. I wrote the date: 6/28/23. I wrote the ounces 3 & 2. I wrote “last pumped milk”. I cut open the bags. Opened one up, and poured in 2 ounces. Zipped it close. I opened up the other bag, pour in 3 ounces, zipped it close. I walked the bags to the freezer, rested them on the shelf, and shut the door. I put the pump bottles aside for cleaning, walked back to my office, put the breast pump in the pump bag, and my day went on like any other normal day, because that’s how it goes.