I Thought Breastfeeding Would Come Naturally. Here's What Really Happened.

Last month, Born Woke Kids launched our Latch. Love. Repeat. Collection in collaboration with BreastfeedLA. I reflected a lot on my own breastfeeding experience during that time.

I have three children.

Three pregnancies.

Three very different breastfeeding stories.

None of them went exactly according to plan.

But when I look back now, I realize that each one taught me something about determination, confidence, asking for help, and knowing when you've simply done the best you can.

This is my story.

Baby #1: When the Plan Fell Apart

When I was pregnant with my first baby, I had a plan.

I wanted an all-natural childbirth. I was going to take Lamaze classes. I was going to take breastfeeding classes. I had all these wonderful ideas about what motherhood and that first year of my baby's life were going to look like.

Then everything came to a screeching halt.

About eight weeks before my due date, I developed a headache that wouldn't go away. After a couple of days, I called my OB-GYN, who had been my doctor for years. He knew me, I knew him, and I trusted him completely.

He told me to come into the office.

After examining me, he very calmly told my husband and me that he thought I should go over to the hospital.

No panic. No alarming language.

He basically said, "Just go on over. They're going to be waiting for you."

I remember thinking we didn't need to go through the emergency room. We could just park and walk in.

"Oh, no, no," he told me. "Just go to the emergency room. They'll be expecting you."

What I didn't know was that my blood pressure was dangerously high, close to stroke level.

I had preeclampsia. I understand now that my experience was also part of a much larger Black maternal health story, as Black women are disproportionately affected by preeclampsia.

My doctor knew exactly how serious the situation was. He also knew me well enough to know that frightening me wasn't going to help. He kept me calm and got me where I needed to be.

And when we arrived at the hospital, they were literally waiting for me.

I was quickly taken upstairs and put on medication.

My daughter was born eight weeks premature by emergency cesarean section.

Just like that, all my plans were gone.

No Lamaze classes.

No childbirth classes.

No breastfeeding classes.

I hadn't even had my baby shower yet.

My daughter weighed just 3 pounds, 7 ounces. In addition to being premature, she had experienced intrauterine growth restriction, so she was small even for her gestational age.

Thankfully, outside of being very tiny, she was healthy.

But she hadn't developed a sucking reflex.

Her pediatrician wanted her to receive high-calorie formula because gaining weight was the priority. She needed as many calories as possible without having to expend a lot of energy getting them.

I was encouraged to pump so my breast milk could be mixed with the formula.

So that's what I did.

She remained in the hospital for 21 days. Once I was discharged, I would pump at home and bring my milk back to the hospital.

At a time when almost everything felt beyond my control, pumping gave me something I could do.

I felt useful.

I felt needed.

When she eventually came home, my life became a cycle.

Pump. Mix. Bottle. Feed. Wash. Repeat.

By the time she was big and strong enough to try nursing directly, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

Honestly, I couldn't blame her.

She'd been living the easy life with those special neonatal nipples where the milk practically came to her. Now I was asking her to work for dinner?

She wasn't having it.

So I kept pumping.

Because she'd never nursed directly, I also didn't have the kind of milk supply I might have established if she'd been able to nurse from birth.

Still, I kept going for about four months.

Eventually, I was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted.

And I stopped.

I didn't feel a tremendous amount of guilt about it because I knew I had done my best.

My daughter was growing. She was healthy. She was thriving.

And for four months, under circumstances neither of us had chosen, I had given her what I could.

I'm proud of that.

Baby #2: This Time, I Was Ready

By the time I was pregnant with my second baby, I had made up my mind.

This experience was going to be different.

After four months of pumping with my first daughter, I was tired of bottles. Tired of washing them. Tired of mixing formula. Tired of the smell. Tired of the spit-up that seemed to permanently stain everything it touched.

This baby was going to be exclusively breastfed.

I was so determined that I threw away every bottle in the house.

Every single one.

Looking back, that may have been a little dramatic.

But I was committed.

I had another goal, too.

After the emergency C-section with my first daughter, I wanted a VBAC, a vaginal birth after cesarean.

For a brief period, I also thought I might do it without pain medication.

Then I experienced my first serious contraction.

That idea went away rather quickly.

I got the epidural.

Unlike my first pregnancy, this time I had been able to prepare.

I took breastfeeding classes. I already knew about the breastfeeding center in my community because it was where I had rented my hospital-grade breast pump after my first daughter was born. During this pregnancy, I went back for education and support.

At the hospital, I was very clear about what I wanted.

No bottles unless medically necessary. Keep the baby in my room. Let her nurse on demand.

My daughter was born healthy with a strong sucking reflex, and breastfeeding got off to a great start.

But here's the thing.

Even though she was my second child, I felt like a first-time breastfeeding mother.

Because I was.

I'd had a baby before, but I'd never actually nursed one.

I questioned everything.

Was she getting enough? Was my supply good? Was she latching correctly?

I welcomed every visit from the lactation nurse while we were in the hospital.

After we went home, I frequently went back to the breastfeeding center for help.

And I'm pretty sure my pediatrician got tired of seeing me.

I was constantly bringing her in to be weighed.

Not because there was anything wrong with her.

Because I needed reassurance.

She was gaining weight. She had wet diapers. She had poopy diapers. She was healthy.

Everything said breastfeeding was working.

The only person who needed convincing was me.

Looking back, I lacked confidence more than I lacked milk.

So I used the resources available to me. I asked questions. I went back for help. I got her weighed again. And again.

Eventually, I learned to trust what I was seeing.

She was doing fine. I was doing fine. We were doing it.

When it was time for me to return to work, I was fortunate to have an employer who gave me some flexibility. I initially went back three days a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays I was home, along with the weekends.

That helped tremendously with maintaining my milk supply.

There was only one problem.

Remember all those bottles I threw away?

Well, my daughter had never learned to take one.

When my nanny tried to feed her expressed breast milk from a bottle, she flat-out refused.

My nanny eventually fed her with a spoon, and she transitioned to a cup pretty quickly.

So yes, I successfully exclusively breastfed my second baby.

I also learned that keeping a bottle or two around probably wouldn't have hurt anybody.

Lesson learned.

Baby #3: By Then, I Knew a Few Things

By the time I was pregnant with my third baby, my only son, I felt much more confident.

I'd learned from both of my daughters.

This time, I still planned to exclusively breastfeed, but I also knew I would eventually introduce a bottle after my milk supply was established. I wanted my husband to have the opportunity to feed him, and I wanted to make life a little easier for whoever cared for him when I returned to work.

See? Growth.

My son was due December 4.

He was born November 27, the Friday after Thanksgiving.

To this day, I blame my grandmother's chocolate cake.

I'd had several pieces on Thanksgiving, as I recall.

I also spent Thanksgiving Day showing some pretty obvious signs that I was in labor while somehow convincing myself that I wasn't.

I was even leaking a little amniotic fluid.

Apparently having already given birth twice did not prevent me from being in denial.

The next morning, I called my doctor. Given my history, he told me to come in.

My son was delivered by C-section.

He was a little early, but healthy, and he had a strong sucking reflex.

Breastfeeding went well.

But by then I understood something I hadn't fully understood with my second baby.

Even when you know what you're doing, your baby doesn't. Breastfeeding may be natural, but mother and baby still have to learn each other.

So I still welcomed the lactation nurse. I still had someone check his latch. I still used the breastfeeding center when I needed it.

The difference was that I wasn't filled with anxiety.

I knew what to look for.

Wet diapers. Poopy diapers. A healthy, hydrated baby. Growth.

I trusted the signs. I trusted him. And I trusted myself.

When I returned to work, nighttime nursing became an important part of maintaining my milk supply. My second and third babies slept with me, and they could nurse on demand throughout the night.

That worked for us.

It also meant that when I was working, I generally only needed to pump a couple of times during the day.

My son nursed beyond a year and was, by far, the hardest to wean.

He had no plans to stop.

And if I'm being truthful, I wasn't in much of a hurry either.

He was my third and last baby.

I knew this was the end of something.

My husband, however, had other ideas.

One night, he decided our son was old enough.

That was it.

He took him into the guest room, the two of them started sleeping in there, and my breastfeeding days rather abruptly came to an end.

And that was baby number three.

Then My Daughters Became Mothers

One of the things I'm most proud of when I look back isn't just that I breastfed my children.

It's that both of my daughters chose to breastfeed theirs.

I can't say for certain why they made that decision, but I'd like to think that seeing me nurse their younger siblings had some influence.

Children pay attention to what we do, even when we don't realize they're watching.

Breastfeeding was something my girls saw as part of caring for a baby.

My oldest daughter has three children, and she successfully breastfed all three.

As a practicing nutritionist and home chef, she brought knowledge to her breastfeeding experience that I didn't have. She was intentional about what she ate and how she nourished her own body to support her health and her milk production.

I'm very proud of her.

I'd like to think I showed her what was possible.

With my younger daughter, I was blessed to be more present during those first weeks and months after my grandson was born.

And I recognized some things.

She had questions. She wanted to know whether he was getting enough. She needed some help with his latch. And she needed reassurance.

I understood because I'd been there.

The difference was that I knew about a resource that hadn't been available to me.

The year before, I had attended KJLH's Women's Health Conference. I actually went partly because I was looking at it as a possible opportunity for Born Woke Kids.

While I was there, I met several organizations providing services to mothers.

One of them was BreastfeedLA.

I met Jennifer and learned about the breastfeeding services and support they provide to Black mothers in Los Angeles County.

When my grandson was born, I remembered her.

I think I may have even emailed Jennifer directly because I still had her business card.

We took my daughter and grandson to meet with her.

Jennifer and the staff worked with my daughter one-on-one. They assessed his latch, helped her make adjustments, answered questions and gave her practical support.

Then they weighed him before he nursed.

After he finished, they weighed him again.

He had taken three ounces of milk during that feeding.

Three ounces.

We were shocked.

It was more than he needed at his age.

My daughter was producing plenty of milk. Her baby was transferring it. What she was doing was working.

That appointment didn't teach my daughter how to be a mother.

She already was one.

What it gave her was confidence.

She continued reaching out to BreastfeedLA when she needed support. She participated in their weekly Titties & Tea group throughout her maternity leave and continued dropping in when she could after returning to work.

They helped give her a foundation she could build on.

For that, I'm incredibly grateful.

What I Know Now

When I look back at all three of my breastfeeding experiences, I don't see a perfect story.

I see determination.

My first baby never nursed directly from my breast.

I pumped for four months anyway.

With my second, I was determined to exclusively breastfeed, but I needed lactation nurses, a breastfeeding center and probably more pediatrician weight checks than were actually necessary before I trusted myself.

By my third, I knew a lot more.

And I still asked for help.

That's probably one of the biggest things breastfeeding taught me.

Determination matters. Preparation matters. Support matters. Ask questions. Use the resources available to you. Let people help you. And don't mistake needing help for failure.

As Black women, we also have a complicated history with breastfeeding. Generations of Black women fed and sustained babies under circumstances they did not choose, sometimes while being denied the freedom to make decisions about their own bodies and their own children.

I don't compare my experience to theirs.

But I do know I come from women who knew how to endure, adapt and keep going when life didn't follow the plan.

I'd like to think a little of that determination made its way to me.

And maybe from me to my daughters.

I would never want another mother to read my story and feel guilty because hers looks different.

Some mothers breastfeed for years. Some breastfeed for months. Some pump. Some supplement. Some try and discover that breastfeeding simply isn't going to work for them. Some never breastfeed at all.

You do the best you can for your child with the body, circumstances, information, resources and support you have. That's all any of us can do.

If breastfeeding is something you want to do and you're able to do it, I encourage you to try.

Ask for help. Find a lactation professional. Use the resources in your community. And give yourself time to learn.

I'm grateful for those four exhausting months of pumping for my first daughter.

I'm grateful for the years that followed and the completely different experiences I had with my other two children.

And I'm proud that both of my daughters went on to breastfeed their own children.

Two generations. Different experiences. Different challenges. A lot of lessons. And plenty of determination.

We didn't do everything perfectly.

We did the best we could.

And sometimes, that's the win.

Besides, you've already done something pretty remarkable.

You made a whole human.

Why Latch. Love. Repeat. Is Personal

Born Woke Kids created the Latch. Love. Repeat. Collection in collaboration with BreastfeedLA to celebrate breastfeeding with some of the humor, pride and determination that come with the experience.

This collaboration is particularly meaningful to me because BreastfeedLA supported my family before there was ever a collection, a campaign or a partnership to talk about.

That's why this isn't simply another collection for me.

It's personal.

Learn more about the incredible support BreastfeedLA provides to Black mothers across Los Angeles County at breastfeedla.org.