Feeding Him Broke Me (Then Put Me Back Together)

Breastfeeding is beautiful. It’s intimate and primal and raw. You’re looking down at this tiny human - your tiny human, and they’re being nourished entirely by you. Every ounce of their growth, comfort, survival… it’s all coming from your body. And if you haven’t introduced formula yet, that reality hits hard. Like, you are literally the food source.

And it’s kind of wild.

The amount of exhaustion that comes from feeding two bodies with one is something no one prepares you for. You’re eating for two. Hydrating for two. Producing, leaking, soaking, soothing. It’s not just physically demanding, it’s mentally disorienting. For two straight months, we did it. I was either nursing or pumping constantly, and we didn’t have any real stash saved up. There was no dreamy freezer drawer full of extra bags so Adam could take a night shift. It was just me - boob or bust.

And I didn’t think twice about formula at first. Like so many moms, I assumed I’d be able to keep up with just breast milk. I wanted to. I tried. But maybe we had a feeling. Maybe we knew we’d need a backup plan, because I was also traveling again, going back to work, and just… not always home. So we had bottles. We had formula. We just hadn’t really used them yet.

Then came Kentucky.

Leon was about nine weeks old, and we were visiting my mom. It was late - one of those dead quiet, emotionally raw nights where you’re running on fumes and desperation. I was trying to get him to latch. Over and over. Adjusting, re-adjusting, cramming his tiny face into my boob, hoping he’d soothe, hoping I could give him what he needed. I was exhausted. He was frustrated.

And Adam - bless him - gently suggested we try a bottle.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to feed him. It’s that I felt like I should be able to. That giving him a bottle meant I was failing. That I wasn’t enough. But we gave him the bottle. And he took it immediately. Drank it calmly, quietly. No more fussing. No more pain. Just peace.

And I broke.

I started sobbing - ugly, guttural, shoulder-shaking sobs. Because in that moment, I felt powerless. I couldn’t give him what he needed. Something else could. Something not me. And that cut deeper than I ever expected.

Of course, he was fed. Of course, he was full and happy. That’s the goal, right? Fed is best. But damn, no one warns you about the emotional weight of that moment. The guilt. The grief. The quiet, lonely crack that forms when your body no longer feels like the sole provider.

I’m not sure I fully came back from that moment. I mean, I did, logistically. We moved on. We figured out a rhythm. I still breastfed, still pumped, still showed up. But something in me softened. Accepted. Grew.

Because the truth is: we’re not supposed to do it all.

We’re supposed to survive. To nourish in whatever way we can. And if that means a bottle, or a break, or letting go of the picture we had in our heads, that’s okay.

That moment in Kentucky will stay with me forever. It was one of the hardest. But also one of the most important. Because in that breakdown, I learned something I didn’t know I needed to learn:That being a mom isn’t about being everything. It’s about doing your best, especially when your best looks different than you imagined.

Holy shit, what an experience.

And here we go again.