The moment my baby was placed gently on my chest for the first time, everything else faded away. Even though I was barely conscious after the anesthesia, my arms instinctively cradled him. His tiny, pink face is etched in my memory forever. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, cherishing this incredible blessing each day.

But amidst the euphoria of new motherhood, one shadow loomed large. It was a chapter I now refer to, almost humorously, as ‘The Breastmilk Saga,’ though no amount of humor could ever erase the deep pain of that experience.

During my complicated pregnancy, I never truly considered what would happen after my baby arrived. I obsessed over birthing videos, C-sections, epidurals — anything to prepare for the delivery itself. When I finally had my C-section and held my healthy, crying baby, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude, thankful that the hard part was over.

But little did I know, it was just the beginning.

The morning after my son was born, the nurse brought him to me for his first feeding. Barely conscious, I tried to nurse him, but it didn’t go as planned. I watched helplessly as his face turned red, struggling to breathe as he attempted to latch. Being a premature baby, he had difficulty sucking properly. The entire ordeal felt like a slow suffocation, and I couldn’t help but feel the pain deep in my chest, as though I were the one gasping for air.

As the day progressed, my baby was fed formula milk to ensure that he stayed nourished. Later that day, when I gained consciousness, the on-duty nurse came and asked why I hadn’t been breastfeeding. I explained the struggles, how my baby couldn’t latch, and she urged me to have my milk supply checked. She proceeded to twist my nipple — a painful, humiliating process — and declared my supply adequate.

The following days were a blur of nurses repeatedly checking my milk supply, only to find it sufficient, yet my son still refused to latch. I felt hopeless.

On the third day, when I was discharged from the hospital, I thought the worst was over. Finally, I could start making beautiful memories with my baby. But as it turned out, the hardest part was just beginning.

Watching my son cry in frustration, unable to suck properly, my husband and I made the difficult decision to switch to formula. We did our research, read countless articles, and concluded that there was no harm in the switch — given our situation. Despite this, I continued to offer him my breast, battling my insecurities, wondering if I was somehow failing him. I pumped as much as I could, but eventually, my milk supply dwindled.

Then came the advice. I was bombarded with suggestions — milk-inducing drinks, doubling my food intake, even “starving” my baby so he’d have no choice but to nurse. Desperate to do the right thing, I followed these absurd suggestions, only to experience an emotional breakdown that shook me to my core.

Thankfully, during my son’s pediatric appointment, the doctor reassured us that his weight gain and development were on track. When I confessed my guilt over not breastfeeding, her words were a balm to my wounded spirit:

“Motherhood is far more than the breastmilk vs. formula debate. You know what’s best for your baby. You’re doing exactly what he needs.”

Her comforting words brought clarity. I had spent so much time torturing myself, convinced that I had failed, but I realized in that moment that I had been putting unnecessary pressure on both myself and my baby. And so, I made a decision — one that brought me peace.

I chose to stop trying to breastfeed and, for the first time, felt content in my choice.

Motherhood isn’t about choosing between breastfeeding or formula. It’s about loving your child unconditionally, nurturing them in the way that works best for both of you. And I’ve come to learn that that is what truly matters.