When I was preparing to have Caleb, I was never fully sold on breastfeeding.
What I mean is: I was not one of those moms who went into it all enthusiastic. At all. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I’m the world’s most awkward hugger. Physical closeness has never been my thing, and honestly, it makes me squirm. Still, I decided to try breastfeeding because the pressure is enormous — from doctors, from the internet, from other moms. So I got the supplies: the Boppy, the insurance pump, the nursing pads. I was technically “ready,” but not emotionally ready. Every time someone asked “breast or bottle?” I’d mutter “breast” even though I didn’t feel confident in that answer.
Right after Caleb was born, they placed him on my chest and encouraged him to nurse. It hurt immediately, and nothing about it felt natural or comfortable to me. A lactation consultant came in, and nurses tried to help too, but the message was always the same: you should breastfeed. There was no real conversation about alternatives. No one walked me through bottles or formula. It felt like my choice had already been made for me.
Caleb ended up needing formula in the hospital because he was jaundiced. They taught him to sip formula out of a tiny medicine cup so he wouldn’t “get used to bottles,” which honestly made everything harder for both of us. While they showed him the cup, they were also teaching me the “football hold” and adjusting my body like a live demonstration model, all within 24 hours of giving birth, while I was exhausted, hurting, and overwhelmed.
Despite everything, I went home and kept trying. I nursed him for a couple of weeks. I cheered when my colostrum turned to milk. I woke up at all hours to feed him. And I dreaded every single feeding. The pain was intense and constant. I would physically cringe when he needed to eat. Sometimes I cried right along with him.
Feeding your child shouldn’t make you cry.
Two weeks in, I finally stopped nursing and felt crushed with guilt. Not because I truly believed I was doing anything wrong, but because that’s what new mothers are conditioned to feel. So I tried pumping instead, thinking maybe that would ease the guilt. And then I became tethered to a machine. I couldn’t leave the house without planning around pumping. I still had to wake up at night. I still felt trapped — only now I was hooked up to plastic parts and waiting on timers.
Because I was already dealing with Postpartum Depression, I eventually reached a breaking point. I had to. Caleb took formula just fine, so I stopped pumping too, somewhere around the 7–8 week mark. It was the first time I could breathe. My body unclenched. The constant dread eased. I still felt guilty, but I finally felt like myself again. My doctor had offered me an antidepressant right after Caleb was born, but I’d declined because I didn’t want it to pass into breastmilk. Now I could finally take care of my mental health by taking the meds, and I could stop feeling chained and stuck.
Things shifted for me right then. Motherhood finally started to feel doable.
So this time around, with baby number two, I knew from the very beginning:
I would not be breastfeeding.
No pumping. No consultants. No pressure. I told my OB early in the pregnancy, and he supported me completely. I even asked if the hospital might push back, and he told me to let him know immediately if anyone did. That reassurance mattered. And it reminded me that my decision was valid.
My baby, my body, my choice.
I understand all the benefits of breastfeeding. I know it’s healthy, cost-effective, and a lovely way to bond for many families. Truly — I have nothing but respect for moms who do it. But I also know I’m still nourishing my baby, whether it comes from my body or a bottle. Formula doesn’t make me any less of a mother.
I support all moms, however they feed their babies. Breastfeeding is wonderful. Bottle-feeding is wonderful, too. What bottle-feeding gives me is less stress, more stability, and the ability for others to share the load — which matters for my migraines (often triggered by lack of sleep), my mental health, and my ability to function as a present, steady parent. It also gives flexibility when baby needs a different formula; we learned that firsthand with Caleb.
Does any of this make me selfish? Some people will think so. Some people will assume my child is missing out. But what they don’t see is how breastfeeding and pumping amplified my anxiety and depression to a level I’d never experienced. Even Caleb’s pediatrician said at the time that a mentally healthy mom was far more important than whether he drank breastmilk.
By choosing formula from day one, I’m choosing stability. I’m choosing to show up. I’m choosing to be the mother both of my children deserve... the one who isn’t drowning.
And that matters more than anything.
At the end of the day, my body is mine. No one else gets to dictate what I do with it. I am growing this baby, nourishing him now, and I’ll continue nourishing him once he’s born — just in the way that keeps me sane, healthy, and present.
It doesn’t mean I love him less. It means I love him enough to do what’s right for both of us.
Motherhood isn’t one-size-fits-all. And this is the version of motherhood that lets me be the mom my kids deserve.
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