I’ve had this motto since finding out I was pregnant that goes a little like this: Don’t make plans. It started when I realized my whole pregnancy would be one big question mark. I have no family history to base anything off of. I don’t know how long my mother was in labor for, I don’t know anything. There were a lot of unknowns so I just stopped planning. If you don’t plan or have expectations, then there’s no chance of disappointment. Harsh, but it’s what worked. Kind of.

With all of that in mind, I still made plans without even realizing I was. I wanted a water birth but our hospital doesn’t do them. Covid, oh covid. How you ruined so many things. Side note, covid didn’t ruin everything. It was actually a relief to only have my husband be allowed in with me. We didn’t have to pick and chose who would be in the room with us. No one was patiently waiting in the waiting room (thank god, it took 27 hours).

Ever since I can remember I planned on formula feeding, I didn’t want to breastfeed. It’s beautiful but it’s not something I wanted to do. I know I know, I’ve heard it all, I’ve read even worse online, and said even worse to myself. Breastfeeding just wasn’t going to happen, and yet I said yes to the nurse when she asked me if I wanted to. She asked me if I wanted to as she lay my freshly born daughter on my chest. My body ached to breastfeed, what the fuck? It demanded to, so much so I ignored my plan and said yes. It was awful. My milk came in so strong my breasts felt like they would crack. Not burst like a balloon but crack as if it was a rock. Violent. I was so excited to get home and lay on my now deflated stomach but to my horror my breasts hurt too much to do so. I quickly realized that breastfeeding wasn’t going to be an option, surprise surprise, so I switched to pumping.

That was hell. Every time she would feed, I needed to pump. My chest was covered by the awful flanges and tubes and an annoying humming sound that came from the pump. There was no room for my baby to curl up and feed. She snuggled up with her father and her teeny tiny bottle. They would share this beautiful moment of exhaustion, and closeness while I watched from my rocking chair. I loathed those feeding sessions. I wanted that baby in my arms, I wanted to feed her, hold her, cherish her. So I cried. I cried hard. Shaking from anxiety, from postpartum feels that take over your whole brain without you evening realizing they are there. I wanted to snatch that baby up. I also wanted to run as far away from that baby as possible. She made me hurt so badly.

Back and fourth between pump and bottle and breast until finally, formula. So much relief. So much shame. I wish I would of listened to myself. I knew I didn’t want to breastfeed or pump and yet I tried anyways. I told myself it was for the baby and now I’m ashamed I didn’t listen to myself. My milk came in, everything was going well according to my lactation doc, everything was going well except my mental health. It was such a relief when I finally chose my mental health and I’m proud of that.

Who knew that my one plan would be foiled by me? Probably everyone, but somehow it was still a shock. The bad memories of the awful pumping machine are distant. I get reminded every so often when I take my shirt off and see my breasts. They used to be so uppity and now they look like I breastfed. I pull them up, perky. I raise my arms up, perky. I let my body relax and my soft, deflated breasts are a memory of when I didn’t listen to myself. I’m not unhappy with my new body, it’s new and it went through a lot. I can honor my body even when I don’t love it, it’s a good body. My breasts are still breasts and I’m happy.