The Moments I Couldn’t Fully Hold: What Two Breastfeeding Journeys Taught Me About Grief, Mental Health, and Motherhood 

By Rhea Sims, MSc, BSN, RN, IBCLC

What I Thought I Knew 

Breastfeeding is natural. It is what our bodies and our babies are biologically designed to do together. And as a Registered Nurse with years of perinatal health experience, I understood the physiology of lactation, knew where to seek help, and trusted that my clinical knowledge would guide me through whatever challenges arose. But natural doesn’t always mean easy, and knowledge doesn’t always translate into lived experience. 

I thought I understood breastfeeding. Then I became a mother. 

I have now breastfed two daughters. Both journeys were difficult. Neither was difficult for the reasons I expected. 

Together, they taught me one of the greatest lessons of my professional and personal life: every breastfeeding relationship is unique, even for the same mother. 

When Every Feeding Hurt 

My first daughter and I struggled from the very beginning. 

Every feeding was painful. Not the tenderness so many mothers are told to expect, but severe, persistent pain that made me brace myself every time she latched. I spent the next seven months searching for answers. 

At just eight days postpartum, I developed mastitis that required antibiotics and breast imaging. My daughter was diagnosed with a posterior tongue tie and upper lip tie. We pursued a release, bodywork, and latch support. I was treated for suspected Raynaud’s of the nipples. My nipples remained cracked and bleeding for months. I met with provider after provider, each offering another explanation, another treatment, another hope that we had finally found the answer. And many times, bottle feeding was suggested as a solution to my pain. Eventually, we uncovered the underlying cause and were able to address it. By then, seven months had passed. 

Seven months of severe pain, with every single feeding.

People have asked me how I endured for so long, why I didn’t just switch to formula or exclusively pump. 

Before every latch, I found myself bracing my body for the pain I knew was coming. I cried every day during those early months, wondering how something so natural could hurt so much. Every feeding became a quiet countdown, waiting for the moment my daughter’s rhythmic sucking would shift from nursing for nourishment to nursing for comfort. That was the moment I could unlatch her and let her soothe with a pacifier (something I never thought I would do). 

And yet, even in the pain, there was beauty. 

I found comfort getting lost in her eyes as she nursed. I felt her tiny fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on my skin. She would reach up and gently caress my face and “talk” to me while she nursed. And every time she latched, she melted into me and let out a deep sigh of contentment that seemed to say, “I’m home.” 

Those moments became my refuge. 

What I grieved wasn’t simply the pain itself. I grieved never being able to fully surrender to those moments. I wanted to be completely immersed in the quiet intimacy of feeding my baby, but the pain was always there beneath the surface, demanding my attention. I couldn’t simply be present. There was always something hurting. 

As unbearable as the physical pain often felt, the thought of ending our breastfeeding relationship before I was ready felt even more painful emotionally. Continuing aligned with my values and what I needed as a mother. I knew my mental health would suffer more if I stopped breastfeeding than if I continued searching for answers. 

So I endured. 

It may not have been the right decision for another mother, and that is exactly the point. Feeding decisions are deeply personal. They should never be measured against someone else’s journey. 

When Every Decision Felt Heavy 

By the time my second daughter was born, I had become an IBCLC. Quietly, I hoped this breastfeeding experience would be different. I imagined peaceful days spent soaking in the newborn bubble I had longed for the first time around. Feeding her without fear, breathing in her newborn smell, and simply enjoying those fleeting moments that pass all too quickly. 

Instead, our challenges simply took a different shape. 

My second daughter had a posterior tongue tie that affected her latch. While I experienced some pain in the first week or two, it was nothing compared to my first breastfeeding journey.

We worked through positioning, oral exercises, bodywork, and releasing tension while watching her feeding improve little by little. 

This time, the greatest challenge wasn’t physical pain. It was uncertainty. Should we pursue a frenectomy? 

From a clinical standpoint, she was feeding “well enough.” She was transferring milk, gaining weight, and maintaining her growth curve. We couldn’t help but wonder whether this was simply one variation of normal that she would adapt to, or whether we were overlooking something that could affect her in the future. 

My husband and I talked in circles for weeks. 

What if this was enough? 

What if it wasn’t? 

Would restricted tongue mobility affect her oral development later? Her feeding? Her speech? Her sleep? Were we trying to prevent problems that might never happen, or were we missing an opportunity to help her while she was still tiny? Should we wait and cross those bridges if they appeared, or make a preventative decision now? 

Most importantly… 

What choice would cause the least harm? 

The financial cost wasn’t ultimately what weighed on us. If a frenectomy was truly what was best for our daughter, we were happy to pay out-of-pocket for it. What made the decision so agonizing was not knowing whether it was truly necessary. Insurance considered it an elective procedure and wouldn’t cover it. Yet as parents, we weren’t asking whether it was elective—we were asking whether it was best for our child. 

As an IBCLC, I understood the evidence. As her mother, I simply wanted certainty. 

Instead, I learned that sometimes there isn’t one perfect answer. Sometimes there are only two loving parents trying to make the best decision they can with the information they have. 

Ironically, despite carrying the emotional weight of those decisions, my mental health was so much better than it had been the first time around. 

Experience had taught me that breastfeeding didn’t have to look perfect to be meaningful. I knew where to seek support. I had more realistic expectations. And I had learned to trust myself, even when certainty wasn’t possible. 

What These Journeys Taught Me

Looking back, it amazes me how different my daughters’ breastfeeding journeys were. 

With my first, I suffered because my body hurt. With my second, I suffered because I loved her so deeply that I was terrified of making the wrong decision. And while I became an IBCLC because of my first journey, this didn’t protect me from breastfeeding challenges with my second. If anything, it deepened my appreciation for how nuanced they can be. Knowledge didn’t eliminate vulnerability; it simply changed the questions I was asking. 

These experiences reshaped the way I think about breastfeeding success. I no longer believe there is one definition of a successful breastfeeding journey or one right choice for every family, despite what I was taught as a new nurse. Sometimes continuing breastfeeding is what protects a mother’s mental health. Sometimes changing the feeding plan is what protects it. And sometimes deciding not to breastfeed at all is the healthiest choice for her mental health. 

Every mother enters motherhood with her own hopes, values, support system, and circumstances. And every baby brings their own unique strengths and challenges. The goal is not perfection. It is finding the path that supports the well-being of both mother and baby. 

What I Want You To Know 

If breastfeeding is one of your goals, my greatest encouragement is to prepare before your baby arrives. Seek out prenatal breastfeeding education; I recommend a course specifically dedicated to breastfeeding. Learn what is normal, what isn’t, and identify the resources available to you before you need them. Whether it’s an IBCLC, your healthcare provider, a local breastfeeding support group, virtual lactation support, or organizations like Postpartum Support International, reaching out for help is not a sign of failure and is often the very thing that allows families to continue meeting their feeding goals. 

Even with 15+ years of nursing experience and later becoming an IBCLC myself, I still needed the support of other professionals. Those experiences deepened my empathy for the families and clients I now serve. Today, I don’t define either of my breastfeeding journeys by how difficult they were, but by what they taught me about resilience, humility, intuition, love, and the power of individualized support. 

Looking back, I realize my mental health wasn’t protected by breastfeeding itself. It was protected by making the choices that aligned with my values in each unique season of motherhood. For one journey, that meant persevering through months of pain. For the other, it meant embracing uncertainty and trusting myself to make the best decision I could for my daughter. 

The same mother. Different baby. Different journey. Different versions of strength. Because there is no one right breastfeeding story—only your own.

---

---

Explore these PSI Resources:   

Free Online Peer Support Group: When Breastfeeding & Bodyfeeding Ends Before You Are Ready
Postpartum Planning Class
Provider Directory
Subscribe to the PSI Blog