When I had my first baby, I had the quintessential dream of breastfeeding—a cozy, bonding experience where my baby and I would gaze into each other’s eyes while angelic harp music played softly in the background. Spoiler alert: reality looked nothing like that.
Breastfeeding my daughter was a full-on battle. She struggled to latch, I struggled to stay patient, and every feeding session felt like an Olympic event requiring precision, endurance, and occasionally tears. Then came the cluster feeding. Oh, the cluster feeding. I’d finally close my eyes at night only to hear her cry 20 minutes later. Rinse and repeat. It wasn’t long before I was walking around like a zombie questioning every parenting decision I’d ever made, including the one to have kids in the first place.
On top of it all, I doubted myself constantly. Was I producing enough milk? Was I doing it “right”? Was I the only mom who felt like breastfeeding was more marathon than miracle? By the time we got through it, I felt like I’d barely survived.
So when my second baby, Connor, came along, I decided to exclusively pump. Pumping felt like the answer to so many of my struggles the first time around. I could provide milk for my baby without the stress of trying to get him to latch, and I wouldn’t be the only one holding the feeding baton. My husband, or other family and friends, could step in and take over some feedings, giving me a chance to nap, eat, or just exist for a moment without a tiny human attached to me.
At first, exclusively pumping felt liberating. The freedom! The control! The ability to measure out every ounce and confidently say, “Yes, he’s getting enough milk!” It was a far cry from the chaos of my first breastfeeding experience.
But here’s the thing about exclusively pumping—it’s a freedom that also chains you to the pump. No matter how you slice it, you’re still on the clock every few hours, tethered to a noisy machine that makes you feel less like a glowing mom and more like a dairy cow on a production line.
Finding a schedule was a nightmare. Connor had impeccable timing, waking up hungry every single time I sat down to pump. It was like he had a sixth sense for sabotaging my plans. My toddler didn’t help either, constantly needing snacks, attention, or an intervention to stop her from climbing something she absolutely shouldn’t be climbing. There were days I felt like I was failing everyone.
But I kept going, mostly because I’m stubborn and a little because I’d already invested too much in the pump to quit now. Over time, I found my groove. Sort of.
Then, something unexpected happened. Around the four-month mark, I started sneaking in breastfeeding sessions with Connor. It wasn’t a big, life-altering decision. It was more of a “let’s see if this works” moment when he seemed hungry and I didn’t feel like cleaning pump parts again. To my surprise, he latched. And it wasn’t the stressful, tear-filled ordeal I remembered from my first experience. It was… dare I say… nice?
Before I knew it, we were doing a combination of breastfeeding and pumping. I still relied on the pump for the bulk of his feedings, but those occasional nursing sessions became little moments of peace and connection. I’d almost call it poetic if I weren’t still mad about all the times he cried the second I turned the pump on.
Looking back, I realize that my journey with feeding my babies has been just that—a journey. It’s been messy, imperfect, and full of lessons I never asked to learn. But it’s also been a testament to the fact that there’s no one “right” way to feed your baby. What works for one season might not work for the next, and that’s okay.
To all the moms out there pumping, nursing, formula-feeding, or doing some combination of everything: you’re doing an amazing job. Whether you’re chained to the pump, battling through latching issues, or simply trying to keep your baby (and yourself) alive and happy, I see you.
And if you need me, I’ll be over here—half pumping, half breastfeeding, fully caffeinated, and 100% winging it.
Pumps & Panic 