Hanging On By A Nipple

This week’s episode of ‘she’s trying her best.’

I cried in the office of a breast specialist I went to after she examined my boobs. She basically told me, “that’s just the way things are this time around, your breast is more vulnerable and susceptible to mastitis so you’re just going to have to deal with it.” When the tears started flowing, she told me to go watch the news then I’ll feel better about my problems. Then she told me to check if I have postpartum depression. Like, WHAT? No, ma’am, these past few months have just been rough.

I’ve had mastitis 3 times in the span of a month and a half. I’ve gone through 3 rounds of antibiotics, had 2 ultrasounds, shoved ice packs and cabbage into my bra - forgetting they’re in there and leaving the house with them casually sitting in my bra - massaged my boob under a hot shower, soaked my nipple in Epsom salt, saw my GP, my gyno, a lactation consultant, and said (mean) breast specialist.

I’m tired. I’m in pain. It feels like my struggles with breastfeeding have become my whole personality lately and everyone’s sick of it, including me. BUT HERE I AM WRITING ABOUT IT, SO YOU CAN SUFFER TOO.

Everyone’s response has been, “just stop breastfeeding. You’ve done enough. It’s been 7 months. Why are you even still breastfeeding?” And I get it, I get why that would be the reaction, but it’s not that easy. It’s not like pressing an ON/OFF switch and boom, done. Stopping is just as tricky as starting. And I haven’t been able to make that call yet, mainly because Adam hates formula with a passion and is still not the biggest food lover. He may look like a Shour but definitely doesn’t eat like one.

And because Adam has CMPA (cow’s milk protein allergy), I’ve also cut out all dairy from my diet. Milk, cheese, chocolate - gone. Of course, I’ll do it, because the thought of him in pain makes it a non-negotiable. But between that, the endless antibiotics, and the sleepless nights, I’ve been thinking a lot about the science of suppression. How much women learn to swallow - literally and figuratively - in the name of motherhood. We suppress what we eat, what we feel, what we need. We call it strength, but honestly? I think it’s just practice. Practice in putting ourselves last.

Maybe that’s what’s been breaking me lately. Not just the infections or the exhaustion, but the sheer effort it takes to keep everything in: the frustration, the guilt, the pain. Suppression might keep things running smoothly on the outside, but inside, it turns into pressure. And like any system under pressure, something’s bound to give.

‘Tis the season of joy and festivities for some and the season of mastitis and misery for others - a.k.a me. Am I being dramatic? Maybe. Am I allowed to be? Yes.

It’s all so different from my experience with Imad. I know no two kids are the same - I knew that on paper, at least. But going through it in practice was a shock I didn’t see coming. Maybe I convinced myself it would be easier this time. Or maybe it was hard before, but it’s harder now, so the first time suddenly seems easier in comparison. Basically, I was living in a bubble of false confidence that just massively popped.

And listen, I know how ridiculous it is that I’m here venting and oversharing while continuing to breastfeed like some deranged martyr. That’s motherhood, I guess. You suffer, you complain, you threaten to quit, and then you wake up and… don’t. I catch myself mid-rant thinking, “you know you could just stop, right?” and immediately follow it with, “but what if tomorrow is the day it suddenly becomes easy?”

I hope tomorrow is that day. Or at least the day he stops biting me while feeding.