When I Realized Breastfeeding Was Hurting My Mental Health

The guilt was crushing—until I gave myself permission to choose formula and breathe again

No one warned me how personal—and political—feeding your baby would feel. It's pitched as a choice, but the second that baby hits your chest, it doesn't feel like one. I remember sitting in the hospital, tears sliding silently into my hairline, while a lactation consultant pressed my baby's head into my sore breast like I was doing it wrong just by flinching. She smiled softly and said, "This is the best gift you can give your baby." And just like that, the guilt was planted. I didn't speak up. I nodded. I tried harder. Because if I didn't, what did that say about me?

What it said—according to every social media caption, prenatal class, and comment section—was that I was selfish. That I didn't care enough. That I just had to tough it out. But no one was there for the 2 a.m. meltdowns when the latch wouldn't work and my baby was screaming and my husband was asleep and my whole body was clenched in pain. No one warned me that the act of feeding my child could come with such deep emotional whiplash: love, fear, dread, resentment, guilt. And no one gave me permission to say, "This isn't working." So I didn't. I kept going—until I couldn't anymore.

The Emotional Toll of "Trying to Be a Good Mom"

The mental load of breastfeeding wasn't just logistical—it was psychological warfare. Every feeding felt like a test I kept failing. Was I doing it long enough? Was she getting enough? Should I be pumping more? How do I know if this pain is normal? Why does everyone else make it look so easy?

I was drowning in a swirl of contradictory advice, well-meaning pressure, and my own spiraling inner dialogue. Reddit threads became my therapy: thousands of desperate moms in the postpartum night shift, whispering into their phones, "Is it okay if I stop?" We all wanted someone to say what we already knew deep down—that you don't have to break yourself to feed your baby.

But the culture doesn't make space for that. There's no medal for saying, "I chose peace." There's only the silence after you do it—and the slow, tender rebuilding of your own trust in yourself.

The Moment I Chose Myself (And My Sanity)

When I finally chose formula, it wasn't some empowering Instagram moment. It was a quiet collapse. My nipples were raw, I hadn't slept more than two hours in a row in weeks, and I was starting to feel physically repulsed by the idea of feeding. I realized I was dreading my baby. That's a sentence I hate typing, but it's the truth—and if you've ever been there, I want you to hear this without shame.

It was my therapist who gently asked, "If this were your best friend, what would you tell her to do?"

The answer came quickly: "I'd tell her to stop."

And so, I did.

Formula Wasn't Giving Up. It Was Coming Up for Air.

Here's the twist: the world didn't end. My baby didn't suddenly stop bonding with me. In fact, feeding became easier. I smiled more. I looked her in the eyes. I began to enjoy motherhood. That was the moment I realized just how much breastfeeding had hijacked my mental health—and how deeply entrenched the guilt was that it took me breaking down to finally allow myself to stop.

What I thought was failure was actually a turning point toward healing. And what I needed wasn't more pressure to "push through." I needed validation that feeding my baby and protecting my peace were not mutually exclusive.

What Helped Me Heal (In Case You're In It Right Now)

Let me offer you the list I wish someone gave me when I was sobbing on the floor in milk-stained pajamas:

• I stopped seeking permission. Formula is not failure. It's food. It's love.
• I unfollowed the voices that made me feel small. Even the "gentle" ones.
• I tracked my mental health like I tracked diapers. If you're weeping more than your baby, that's a sign.
• I made feeding about connection—not perfection. Holding a bottle and holding space can go hand in hand.
• I reframed what "best" meant. Sometimes, the best thing you can give your baby is a version of you that's not in crisis.

A Love Letter to the Mama Who's Spiraling

If you're reading this while half-hoping someone will just say "It's okay to stop"—this is that permission. You're not weak. You're not selfish. You're incredibly brave for even questioning the narrative that says your suffering is required.

There is no bonus round for martyrdom. And your baby needs you, not your depletion.

Whether you combo feed, bottle feed, breastfeed, or do some Frankenstein rotation of all three—you are still a damn good mom.

Real Talk? Here's What I Know Now

Breastfeeding doesn't make you a better mom.

Formula doesn't make you a worse one.

And peace of mind? That's priceless.

My mental health was the first gift I gave to myself in motherhood—and maybe the most important one.

If no one else says it today: You're doing great. You're allowed to pivot. You're allowed to protect your peace.

Now go warm that bottle (or don't) and hold that baby like the warrior you are. 🍼✨