They say you can’t pour from an empty cup. But for mothers, that saying often feels unrealistic. We pour anyway, even when there’s nothing left—squeezing out the tiniest, almost invisible drop. Because that’s what motherhood demands: giving, even when we are running on fumes.
Recently, a friend of mine who had just given birth in June—and was once again on her breastfeeding journey—lost her father only two months later. Watching her grieve while nursing her child reminded me of my own path: the weight of loss colliding with the responsibility of nurturing life. It took me back to the early days of my motherhood, when joy and heartbreak existed side by side.
In April 2015, I lost my grandmother—the same month I learned I was pregnant. That December, I gave birth to my daughter. Just four months later, in April 2016, I lost my mother to cancer. And as if grief hadn’t tested me enough, I was also still finding strength to heal from another deep wound—the loss of my sister just three years before. What made it even trickier was that all of this unfolded during my postpartum stage, when my body and mind were already navigating massive changes. It was layer upon layer of exhaustion—physical, emotional, and mental.
It was as if grief had no space to settle. I went on autopilot—determined to breastfeed, to provide, to show up. My daughter deserved the best, even if I wasn’t giving the best to myself. I juggled roles as a working mother, wife, daughter, sister, and everything in between. I told myself I could handle it all.
But eventually, my mental health gave way.
Racing Thoughts
Anxiety stuck to me like a shadow. Nights passed without sleep, and mornings brought no peace—only racing thoughts and replayed losses. The tiniest things—a smell, a meal, or a song—would drag me back to my mom, my ate, or my grandma. Each one cracked me open with a flood of what ifs and if onlys. What if they were here to guide me as a new mom? If only I had more time with them.
But my anxiety wasn’t only about grief. It grew into constant fear—fear of illness, fear of losing more people I loved, fear that something bad was always just around the corner. My mind was a battlefield of “what ifs,” and my body lived in a state of hypervigilance. I appeared functional—breastfeeding, working, caring—but inside, I was falling apart.
By 2018, I knew I needed help. Therapy was a step I had long resisted, fearing stigma, cost, and what it might say about me as a mother. But I was becoming afraid of myself—afraid of my thoughts and where they could lead me. Prayer gave me strength, but it wasn’t enough to quiet my mind.
Even as I worked through therapy and healing, breastfeeding remained the anchor of my motherhood. Because breastfeeding knows no time and space. I have nursed my daughter in planes, trains, airports, restaurants, malls, while bathing her, while working. It wasn’t always easy, but it was real, raw, and one of the most beautiful parts of my journey.
Choosing to breastfeed was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. The bond was undeniable, the health benefits clear, and yes—the savings for mom’s shopping were a bonus. But breastfeeding was also exhausting. Behind the smiles were sore muscles, sleepless nights, and days stretched thin between work and family.
By the time I reached my daughter’s nearly fourth year of breastfeeding, my therapist asked me a question I wasn’t ready for: “Should you give it up?”
It shook me. My biggest hesitation about taking medication was this—I didn’t want to stop breastfeeding. I believed my daughter needed it more than I did. But I also had to face another truth: if I wanted to keep showing up as the mother she deserved, I had to take care of myself first.
I resisted medication at first, worried about side effects and the idea of being “dependent” on something. But in the end, I realized that prioritizing my mental health doesn’t make me less of a mother. It makes me a stronger one.
Beyond Guilt
Breastfeeding may be natural, but it’s never simple. It demands patience, sacrifice, and strength. Sometimes, that sacrifice is knowing when to hold on and when to let go—for both mother and child.
The hardest lesson I learned was this: giving myself permission to heal wasn’t failing my daughter. It was choosing to be present for her in a deeper, healthier way.
For too long, mothers have been burdened with guilt—for needing rest, for seeking help, for stopping earlier than expected. But guilt has no place in healing. In the end, our children don’t just need milk—they need mothers who are whole.
August is Breastfeeding Awareness Month. But it should also carry another reality: that breastfeeding, while beautiful, should never come at the cost of a mother’s sanity.
Whether you breastfeed for two months or three years, in public or in private, whether you continue or stop—your worth as a mother isn’t measured by the length of your breastfeeding journey. It’s defined by the love, care, and presence you give your children. And sometimes, that begins with loving yourself enough to heal.
Written by: Melissa Andrea de Quiros-Gan
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