It’s now been two years since I’ve nursed a babe.
Two years since I felt the tingling sensation of my milk letting down.
Two years since I’ve stroked a babe’s cheek while they look up at me, milk drunk and sated.
Two years since my body has been essential to their life.
To think I used to feel SHAME.
To think I ever felt like a failure.
When now I sit here, desperate for that feeling again.
I had two breastfeeding journeys in my lifetime—neither was a bit like the other.
I’m grateful for every moment that we made it.
Every tear that we shed.
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This is one of the first photos ever taken of myself nursing the girls (shared a few more in my stories).
It actually took 8 days for my milk to come in so what we did was, dry nursing on the nipple off and on, followed by a tube system that filled a nipple shield with formula to simulate nursing.
It was a rigorous process that required my husband’s help.
Every. Single. Time.
So, every 2 hours like clockwork we would start the process over—for eight days straight.
Nothing’s ever made me feel so lost, yet so proud.
There is truly nothing in the world like it.
You know I kept a bag of breast milk in the freezer for almost a year after I stopped nursing.
It’s taken a long time to grieve the end of that journey.
And I’m still somewhere in it.
Closer to the top now.
Closer to closure.