Enough

The following is a guest post written by Nicole Dorion. She exclusively pumped for 8 months and wrote about her experience and the emotions she was feeling as she finished one of the hardest things she had ever done. You can find her on Instagram.

2 ounces. That’s all I get now from my morning pumping session. My best of the day.

It’s not enough.

After months of exclusively pumping, I’m down to my final days. And I can’t believe how hard it is to let go.

I knew this time would come. I wished for it to come.

I loathed the pump from day one. Maybe because pumping didn’t feel like my choice.

My baby was born premature. Too small and undeveloped to breast feed, he used a feeding tube instead. My job was to pump enough milk for him.

So I tried.

I pumped before I ever got to hold my baby.

I pumped every 2 hours, day and night.

I pumped even when nothing came out.

I cried wondering why my body kept failing me.

Preterm labor. A low milk supply. I resented so much, but refused to give up.

I power pumped for an hour every day.

I pumped in the car. I pumped at work. I pumped when I was sick. I pumped myself raw.

I pumped when my baby slept through the night, cradling that black box in my arms because those painfully-exhausting midnight sessions were my biggest producers.

Tirelessly, I pumped to build and maintain a supply that was never quite enough.

I hated pumping. The lost time. The isolation. The endless wheezing and whining of that machine attached to me.

I would think “enough is enough.” Yet I was compulsively committed to it.

My baby needed that liquid gold. And longed for my body to do something right.

As broken as I felt, I became stronger than I ever imagined.

I pumped to provide for my baby.

I pumped to connect with him.

I pumped to give him the best start to life.

I pumped not because it was my first choice, but because I chose to do what I could.

Now I pump enough for just one bottle a day. His last meal before bed. The one I always get to feed him.

My heart grows a little heavier as I watch the ounces disappear. But I breathe a little easier too.

I remind myself our connection is deeper than the liquid in a bottle. That whether it comes from my body or the store, he is loved and he is nourished.

And that is enough.