My Breastfeeding Journey: The Pain, The Guilt, And The Realisation

How I Learned That Breastfeeding Isn’t Always Magical (And That’s Okay)

Let’s rewind to 2018. I was about to have my first baby… finally, a little boy I had longed for. At that point, I had absolutely no expectations about feeding him. If you’d asked me, I’d have happily chimed in on the ‘fed is best’ brigade, waving the flag for all the mothers out there who chose either to bottle or breastfeed, all the while pretending to know exactly what I was talking about. The truth was, I was just trying to be nice and supportive, without a clue as to the many reasons why someone might need or choose to bottle-feed.

I decided I’d give breastfeeding a go, but if it didn’t work, if it was too painful, I’d give myself a little bit of grace and switch to bottle-feeding. Spoiler alert: that wasn’t an option. For either me or my baby.

Now, before we get into it, let me just say: I’ve never been gifted in the breast department. Not that it matters, but I’m what you’d call ‘small-boobed.’ And yes, I had a minor meltdown about it back in 2003, but once I accepted it, I got on with life, until I had to breastfeed. Suddenly, these tiny boobs became my everything, and not in a glamorous way.

In the beginning, breastfeeding wasn’t too bad. My milk came in, my boobs went rock-hard, and sure, it hurt like a bastard - but I powered through. Once the rocks turned back into, well, boobs, I thought I’d cracked it. Did I cry every time my son latched? Oh, absolutely. There was even a bit of full-on howling at one point. I’m talking wolf-level howls. When my husband finally suggested we ask for help, I reluctantly agreed.

Enter the health visitor. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with UK bureaucracy, health visitors are assigned after birth and can range from angels sent from heaven to individuals you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. I got lucky. Sort of. She gave me a bit of guidance, but I’m a perfectionist, so naturally, I was determined to get it right. Weeks passed. The pain was still there. But it wasn’t just pain. My tiny boobs had transformed into magical pain dispensers with superpowers. My ‘let down’? You’d better believe it was strong. I could practically shoot milk across the room. In fact, I did. More than once. Apparently, a baby’s tiny stomach isn’t quite equipped to handle such a forceful flow. Mastitis, anyone? Oh, I had it repeatedly.

One day, after yet another round of mastitis, I sat topless in a room adjacent to a primary school while a specialist breastfeeding team tried to help. I had reached the end of my tether. “It hurts,” I blurted out, “it hurts so much! He’s so gassy, he unlatches all the time, and look!!” I pointed at my boobs, “they look like a fucking Rorschach test!” My chest was covered in these awful blister scars, perfectly symmetrical, of course. The specialist looked confused, offered some vague words of encouragement, and advised me to keep going. I left that damp, warm room feeling like I was some sort of breastfeeding martyr.

It wasn’t long before I hit a breaking point. The seventh bout of mastitis hit like a ton of bricks, and I finally thought, “That’s it. I’m done.” But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about babies: they don’t respect your decisions. My son refused a bottle. Not even a little bit. Apparently, he was very attached to the idea of breastfeeding. Great. So, while I was battling the pain and the heavy emotions of quitting breastfeeding, I found myself on the bathroom floor, sobbing, as my son angrily rejected every bottle I offered him. I handed him off to my husband, then proceeded to hide in the bath for the entire day.

Eventually, he gave in and took the bottle. But that didn’t mean I gave myself the grace I deserved. Instead, I beat myself up endlessly about not being able to “make it work.” Which was absurd. Looking back now, I was so unfair to myself.

Fast forward to when my son was about eight months old. There was blood all over his mouth, and for a moment, I thought, “What on earth has he eaten?” Nope, it turned out that he had tongue tie. His tongue tie had actually split. That was why breastfeeding had been so painful. But I didn’t know this at the time. Nobody told me. I just thought I was doing it wrong.

Then, when my daughter came along in 2023, I was a different woman. Second-time mum, bit more experienced, and a little bit done with the nonsense. When the pain started again, I immediately said, “She’s got tongue tie.” And guess what? They listened. She was referred to a specialist, and it turned out she had a 90% posterior tongue tie. It felt like such a relief to finally have an explanation. I could’ve cried, but I didn’t. I just silently mourned my past self, because Past Laura, you did good.

Breastfeeding wasn’t what I expected it to be, not in any way, shape, or form. It was painful, exhausting, and frustrating. But it also gave me something I never anticipated: a deep understanding of my own strength and an unshakable belief in my ability to keep going, even when everything feels like it’s falling apart. It turns out, I didn’t need to be perfect to succeed. I just needed to be honest with myself, let go of the guilt, and realise that doing my best was enough!