The first truth is that I never wanted to breastfeed.
The second truth is that I’m scared to even have those words published because of the constant backlash mothers get if they don’t breastfeed.
The third truth is that breastfeeding was tipping me over into the darkness of postpartum depression, and choosing not to do it let me and my baby live in the light.
Mine was a complicated and difficult pregnancy. I suffered from intense morning sickness that made me lose 10 pounds during my first trimester; I had a bleed between my uterus and my placenta that caused my OB to put me on partial rest for about two months; I had frighteningly high blood pressure; and, in the third trimester, I had gestational diabetes. I was on a strict diet and I couldn’t exercise (my OB-GYN didn’t even want me taking the single flight of stairs at the clinic), but that was all fine because my baby was growing well and developing normally. By the time I was rounding the corner on my ninth month, however, I was eager to feel like my body belonged to me again, that I was an individual with agency and a brain, that I was more than someone else’s vessel, even if that someone else would become the most important person in my life.
I knew even before I gave birth that I didn’t want to breastfeed. The pressure of being the sole source of nourishment and hydration for this tiny, helpless human was overwhelming, and I resented the idea that I would have to continue the solo operation of keeping the baby alive after giving birth. I had successfully grown and housed him in my body; once he left my body, I wanted to share that responsibility. My partner was just as capable a caregiver, and I wanted the freedom to turn some of the feeding duties over to him while, simultaneously, wanting to make sure that he and my son had ample opportunity to bond.
I was eager to feel like my body belonged to me again, that I was an individual with agency and a brain, that I was more than someone else’s vessel, even if that someone else would become the most important person in my life.
Still, I tried breastfeeding anyway, despite everything, because I was told unequivocally that it was the best thing for my baby, and I loved him so completely, immediately, that I was willing to subjugate my own desires for body autonomy in the name of that love. Body autonomy is important to me and something my partner and I wanted to instill in our child from an early age. A baby is a full and complex human being, and I didn’t even plan to pick him up to change his diaper without telling him what I’m going to do and why it’s important. His body is his; I am here to help him care for it until he can care for it on his own.
So I was surprised—and offended—when, the day after my son was born, when I was healing from my C-section after 36 hours of labor and exhausted, the hospital’s lactation consultant came in and grabbed my breasts before so much as offering me their name. This happened again, with another consultant, and to this day, I don’t know why I didn’t say anything to them, why I didn’t tell them that I was a person and that they should ask my consent before they touched me, but I didn’t. I never said anything. And it made me feel awful, and angry, and terribly small.
I am not a person who hates, and I hated pumping. It made me feel as though I were being reduced to my most basic parts.
But what made me feel even worse was pumping. Feeding my baby from my body, when I could do it, was fine. Having him nuzzled close was a source of quiet comfort. But pumping to keep my supply up, as I sat with the pump parts in both hands, felt oppressive, draining, clinical, and triggered something deep within me: I do not want this done to my body. At the hospital, I held the pump parts in my hands and sat there while a series of different machines tried to make my milk come in, and with nothing else to occupy me, I began to spiral. The first time I did it, I was alone with my sleeping baby in the hospital room, my partner having gone to the cafeteria, and all I had to keep me company was the strange, purring sound of the pump, and my newborn’s sleepy breathing. I hated it. I am not a person who hates, and I hated pumping. It made me feel as though I were being reduced to my most basic parts, when I had spent a lifetime honing my mind, striving toward academic and artistic achievement, and it all suddenly didn’t matter, because now I was a mother, and I wasn’t making enough milk to keep my baby alive.
I tried to breastfeed for six weeks in total, and every time I did, an otherwise joyous and calming time with my new baby was fraught with anxiety. Every time I experienced a let down, I felt a sinking feeling, like I’d forgotten to do something terribly important, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. I spent sessions feeding and pumping feeling like I didn’t deserve my gorgeous baby, wondering if I’d made some monumental mistake in having him in the first place. When I began to pump, I could feel my hormones shift, like the breaking of a dam, and it was as though my dopamine and serotonin were all being leached out of my body through my nipples. It was a little better when I actually breastfed my baby—at least then I had some oxytocin to make up for everything else—but not by much. I would hold my sweet little nugget of a baby and cry and cry until I became so dehydrated I thought I might actually faint.
I told my OB about this at my first postpartum visit, and she said I might have something called dysphoric milk-ejection reflex, a poorly understood condition that indicates a sudden and dramatic drop in dopamine levels associated with the hormonal shift that happens in lactating women. My OB suggested I see a lactation consultant for help and guidance, but after my profoundly negative experience in the hospital, I was unwilling to subject myself to further manhandling.
And then one day I had a revolutionary thought: I matter, too.
I figured, well, I wouldn’t breastfeed forever. Eventually he’d start eating people food—and I could go back to feeling normal. So, I went home and simply let myself be sad. After all, I knew I would gladly lay down my life for my baby. What’s a little sadness? He mattered more than anything in the world to me; he still does; he always will.
And then one day I had a revolutionary thought: I matter, too. It was so simple, but it wasn’t something I’d let float across my consciousness since I’d found out I was pregnant. I’d given up caffeine, sushi, refined sugar. I’d managed my gestational diabetes with dietary changes, I’d gone on partial rest when I had a subchorionic hemorrhage, I’d done everything I was supposed to do, and I’d done it happily. But I didn’t want to do this. And what I wanted mattered, too.
So I boxed up the pump, and I bought some anti-gas bottles, and the darkness that had been creeping in around the edges of my consciousness began to dissipate. During the second half of my maternity leave, it’s like a light was switched on. It was just me and my baby and the heart-exploding joy of new motherhood.
Please don’t misunderstand: I have great respect for parents who choose to breastfeed, and I believe that they should be able to do it where and whenever they like, free from harassment. But what the “breast is best” advocates don’t understand is that the best thing for a baby is a healthy mother, and that includes mental health as well.
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