Prior to becoming a mother, breasts were simply a part of my anatomy. After giving birth, however, they suddenly became an uncomfortable center of focus requiring minute-by-minute attention. They became tools for an important life-sustaining trade, and I was unapprenticed. Precious son at my chest, he loudly requested that I learn what to do, and quickly. The responsibility was both exciting and daunting.
As a physical therapist, I am predisposed to think that the body is trainable. There were things I could do to assist my body for a safe pregnancy and delivery. But no exercise or nutrition program could truly prepare me for nursing. I’d read about it. Watched instructional videos. Talked to doulas, midwives, lactation consultants, and other mothers. Although valuable, none of that education prepared my body for what breastfeeding felt like to me: repetitive mini shark bites during grueling failed attempts to latch, sustaining a seriously awkward position, and being immobilized for over 40 minutes (because fear of disrupting the latch once it’s achieved was enough to glue me in place as if by rubber cement) every 45 minutes around the clock for weeks — and then the raw, searing, burning, can’t-even-let-gentle-shower-water-touch-me discomfort between feedings. And beyond physical pain was the pang of feeling inadequate.
Out of curiosity, I looked through scholarly articles for a statistical understanding of exactly what percentage of new mothers struggle with breastfeeding. I wanted to feel normal. According to the Surgeon General’s Call to Action to Support Breastfeeding (published in 2011), an estimated 33 percent of breastfed infants were exclusively breastfed through age three months, and only 13 percent were exclusively breastfed for six months. That means a whopping 87 percent of mommas must’ve faced some pretty significant challenges if they decided not to continue breastfeeding. The article went on to state: “The incongruity between expectations about breastfeeding and the reality of the mother’s early experiences with breastfeeding her infant has been identified as a key reason that many mothers stop breastfeeding within the first two weeks postpartum.” I concur. The phenomenon of breastfeeding was not immediately a nurturing or bonding. Additionally, a systematic review published in the Journal of Oklahoma State Medical Association states that although most women intend to breastfeed, rates decrease “quickly” in the first four to eight weeks postpartum and a “majority of women do not breastfeed for the period of six to 12 months recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics.” I can now understand why. Breastfeeding is tough.
I had no idea how helpless I’d feel when letdown happened while in the middle of a conversation with my visiting in-laws. Or how uncomfortable it would be to attempt letting tender places air-dry in the middle of winter. Or how distracting the ebb and flow of empty to full breasts would be. Or what it would feel like mentally and emotionally to waver within what I referred to as the Milk Quandary: the dread of nursing through raw places that looked like “sliced butter” (my pediatricians words, not mine) countered by a primal and irrevocable determination to provide optimal nutrition for my son.
Metaphorically, creating the proper environment for a latch, a symbiosis, was also a personal challenge. For it to work, I had to be still, let go of external agendas, and put my independent nature on hold. It required patience and even, for me, a little bit of metaphorical fight instead of flight. When both myself and my son were exhausted from unsuccessful latch attempts, I’d take a deep breath, pull back my hair, cradle him behind his tiny shoulders, gaze into his eyes, and repeat, “We are OK. We are OK,” and keep trying until the latch happened successfully. For the first few weeks, those three words became our nursing mantra, our subtle fight song; words I used to guide and comfort us both through the experience together.
At four weeks postpartum, after immense intervention: encouragement from other mothers, two different lactation consultant visits, application of four different nipple ointments, occasional application of refrigerated cabbage, usage of the Hakka pump and the Brest Friend nursing pillow, and the addition of occasional feedings of breast milk from a bottle, nursing did gradually become better. It felt strange to see the bottle provide something so effortlessly I had struggled with for weeks, but sharing the responsibility was honestly a relief. It gave me a chance to recover and heal. And the bottle also helped my son get enough milk.
Somehow, women’s bodies have the potential to magically produce enough milk to sustain a sweet, tiny, voraciously hungry little human hour after hour. Yet successful nursing is the outcome of surmounted obstacles that are different, but perhaps relatable, for many mothers. Nursing did not come naturally for me, and for some it does not happen at all. Sustaining an infant is not something emphasized as a classic everyday act of heroism the way helping a senior cross the street or retrieving a cat from a tall tree limb are, and I think it should be. The magnitude of early motherhood responsibility and adaptation is significant.
No matter how mothers feed their babies, dedication, determination, pushing beyond exhaustion, and a significant degree of self-sacrifice are involved. The experience of feeding a newborn turns each day into a hard-earned victory.
Monika Patel is a Doctor of Physical Therapy and strength and conditioning specialist. She has a passion for empowering women to prepare for well-balanced motherhood — both mentally and physically. She has applied her knowledge of preventative medicine to establish Train4Birth, an affordable online course with a built-in accountability feature. She is also the mother of a truck-loving toddler and couldn’t be happier digging with him in the backyard. Visit train4birth.com for more information.