I vividly remember the first time I realized just how important it was to me to breastfeed. I had just received an invitation to a baby shower that would take place approximately 3-4 weeks postpartum. I was excited for my first event sans newborn, but I immediately panicked to my husband – “What if the baby won’t take a bottle?” In my vision of motherhood, there was zero chance I wouldn’t be breastfeeding exclusively. I pictured those first few weeks postpartum with my tiny babe latched perfectly and happily onto my breast all day, refusing bottles. And I loved it. Those thoughts of nourishing my baby with my body were oh so exciting. If he wouldn’t take a bottle, everyone would understand that I would only be able to make a brief appearance at the shower, if at all. Breastfeeding my baby came first.
For as long as I have wanted to have children, I have wanted to breastfeed. Pregnancy itself never seemed that exciting as I have always been scared of the unknown. It’s one of those life events that you really can’t prepare for as the experience itself is so unique, every single time. But I can wholeheartedly say I was looking forward so much to two of the miracles that would come of my gestation: a beautiful baby boy, and breastfeeding. From day one of my pregnancy, I had dreams of the sweet breastfeeding relationship I wanted to have with my child. And while I’m sure many mothers out there also daydream of this wonderous bond, as a Black woman, it personally felt like it came with a lot of baggage.
A Little History
The fact is, breastfeeding for Black women does have a lot of baggage attached to it, something that I’ve always innately felt. I’ve often heard the statement “Black women don’t breastfeed.” It doesn’t matter from where or from whom, it’s just something that’s been swirling I my thoughts for as long as I can remember. It is no secret that Black woman breastfeed at rate much lower than other races – the CDC states that 74% of Black babies are ever breastfed compared with 83% of Hispanic babies, 87% of non-Hispanic White babies and 88% of Asian babies. All of the studies done surrounding this topic may vary in numbers, but the overall results always point to lower Black breastfeeding rates. We can trace this trend back all the way to slavery.
Wet nursing has been around for many centuries, dating back to Ancient Rome, and was quite popular until the era of formula began. Breastfeeding was often seen as beneath women of a certain status, and wet nurses were paid to do the “dirty” work of motherhood. When slavery took hold in the United States in the 1600’s, a clear benefit to having slaves was a free wet nurse. Enslaved Black women, still raw from the wounds of childbirth, were forced to breastfeed the White children of their owners against their will. Their own children were left to suffer and die from drinking mixtures of cow’s milk and dirty water while the White babies thrived. Even after slavery was abolished, Black women still turned to nursing White babies in order to make a meager living, often not seeing their own babies for weeks at a time.
Thus began the stereotype of the mammy figure, and the fraught relationship between Black woman and breastfeeding. Generations of Black women passed down these tangible horror stories alongside intangible trauma, and breastfeeding just wasn’t our thing. It doesn’t help that hospitals routinely give Black women formula at higher rates, and Black women have less access to IBCLC’s and community support around breastfeeding than other races. Since I don’t want this to turn into a debate about breast vs. bottle, let’s just say that if there is even a slight benefit to breastfeeding, it’s a slight benefit that Black children have been missing out on.
In general, Black people are often seen as a representation of the entire race. Many times when we do something negative in the public eye, society tends to pin it on black stereotypes vs. recognizing us as unique individuals. There is a nagging feeling of having to be “on” all of the time in order to not let our people down, and it is exhausting. This is how I felt with breastfeeding. An immense pressure to not be the stereotype, and prove to the world that Black women were able to breastfeed their babies just as well as White women. I never researched or bought formula because surely, I would never need it. I did get a breast pump and bottles, as I knew that I wanted others to be able to feed my baby – but only liquid gold! And not before at least two weeks of exclusive boob! This was the only narrative that I was willing to accept. But you know what they say about the best laid plans…
The Journey
I remember the first time I put EJ at my breast. Completely exhausted from labor, I had taken a quick nap while EJ enjoyed some skin to skin time with daddy, and I finally felt ready to take on the challenges of the first latch. I took off my gown and situated myself with the support of no less than four pillows. I quickly ran over all of the nursing tips and tricks I had crammed in my head, took a deep breath, positioned EJ for his first feed. It seemed to go well at first. His latch wasn’t very deep, but he looked happy (or as happy as an hours old baby can be!). As the day went on, and I breastfed a few more times, something seemed off. There was an extremely sharp pinching pain and my nipples were completely misshapen. I was already dreading each time I knew I had to feed him. Right away, I asked the nurse for help. She barely looked at us and said breastfeeding was supposed to hurt in the beginning. I wasn’t convinced. But – there was an easy solution, right? The hospital’s lactation consultant! Sadly, after much back and forth with several other nurses and the pediatrician (who also assured me that we were “doing great”) I was finally told that BOTH lactation consultants were out for the weekend. One was on vacation, and the other was sick. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that newborns don’t eat much the first day or two and our postpartum doula was meeting us at our home as soon as we left the hospital.
But it was all downhill from there. And if there is any way to describe the next few weeks in regards to breastfeeding, it would probably be HELL. As soon as our doula would leave for the day, it felt like nursing became impossible. EJ was born with mild jaundice, which we later learned can cause fatigue, and he also had oral ties. His little mouth had trouble latching and he had to go through a ton of exertion in order to extract milk. He would pass out from exhaustion before getting full and I needed a break from the pain anyway. The worst of it was in the middle of our fourth night home. EJ’s diaper was mostly dry with crystals from dehydration. My son was in my arms starving, taunted by my engorged breasts and I just couldn’t get him to latch. The more we both tried, the hungrier and more frantic he got. I didn’t know how to pump or hand express yet. We were both sobbing. I was screaming at my husband Larry to get a lactation consultant to the apartment even though it was 3am. After a while I refused to hold my inconsolable baby anymore. All I wanted to do was sleep. It was my worst nightmare. My husband took EJ to the couch and laid him on his chest until he calmed down to sleep. When I woke a few hours later, Larry let me know that EJ was doing fine, and I faced the dreaded words that I didn’t want to hear but I knew were coming – He had gone to the 24 hour CVS, and EJ was given a bottle of formula. All I heard was: I have failed.
No amount of help from our lactation consultant, pediatrician or postpartum doula seemed to help us. Everyone had different advice and opinions. Finally, at two weeks old, we had EJ’s tongue and lip ties lasered away by a pediatric oral and maxillofacial surgeon. Afterwards, he immediately latched on perfectly like the champ that he is. The difference was like night and day. Our breastfeeding relationship took a turn for the better after that, but never quite got to where I wanted it to be. I’m not sure if it was due to our rocky start, or just my body chemistry – but I was never able to produce enough milk for my son. I had to accept the fact that EJ would be mostly formula fed. There was a a pang of shame, guilt, and embarrassment felt every time I pulled out a bottle of formula. I felt like I had let myself down and I felt like I had let down my race. My baby was healthy and happy, yet something in me was still deeply frustrated and disappointed. I hung on to nursing him with what little I had for as long as I could.
No amount of help from our lactation consultant, pediatrician or postpartum doula seemed to help us. Everyone had different advice and opinions. Finally, at two weeks old, we had EJ’s tongue and lip ties lasered away by a pediatric oral and maxillofacial surgeon. Afterwards, he immediately latched on perfectly like the champ that he is. The difference was like night and day. Our breastfeeding relationship took a turn for the better after that, but never quite got to where I wanted it to be. I’m not sure if it was due to our rocky start, or just my body chemistry – but I was never able to produce enough milk for my son. I had to accept the fact that EJ would be mostly formula fed. I felt a pang of shame, guilt, and embarrassment every time I pulled out a bottle of formula. I felt like I had let myself down and I felt like I had let down my race. My baby was healthy and happy, yet something in me was still deeply frustrated and disappointed. I hung on to nursing him with what little I had for as long as I could.
After about three months, I knew it was time to wean. Here I was, the stereotypical Black mother that doesn’t breastfeed. Because of the pressure I had put on myself, I struggled if it was the right decision, when it should have been easy. It was hard to admit to myself that trying to breastfeed was causing me way more stress than not breastfeeding at all would. I had to let the pressure go. I focused on the positives: We had made it all the way to the three month mark. That’s three months more than some mothers are ever able to do. No more hours spent pumping and agonizing over not producing enough. I finally slept more than 6 hours without being interrupted by bursting boobs. After nearly one year, from the start of pregnancy to end of breastfeeding, my body was finally completely back to being mine. And most importantly – EJ was as content as ever with his bottles and formula.
Finding Peace
No matter how difficult it was, nursing EJ was still an experience I look fondly upon. I will always cherish the hours EJ spent latched on to me, eyes slowly closing, only letting go once he was in a deep sleep, snuggling himself in for a nice long nap. I will always remember how in the days after our last feed, I would feel a achy tingling inside my breasts, beckoning for one more latch.
I don’t think I’ve ever fully come to terms with the burden I placed on myself to breastfeed, particularly as a Black woman. I never really sought the proper help to cope with those feelings, just the physical aspects of my perceived shortcomings. I can be pretty bad at reaching out for help in general. Writing this essay is probably the closest I’ve come to truly exploring how I felt during those first few postpartum months. I hope if you are a new mother, especially a new Black mother, that you give yourself grace when it comes to feeding your baby. If you’re like me, and also feeling the pressure to exclusively breastfeed, reach out to someone in your tribe or seek professional help. I wish I had.
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I have dreams of one day experiencing a longer and less stressful breastfeeding relationship with another child. But next time, if we are lucky enough to have a next time, I won’t put so much pressure on myself if that doesn’t happen. I will do the best that I can. And I know that no matter what, my baby will be fine. Actually no, scratch that… no matter what, my baby will be thriving.