Part 2: Those first few days

I had a scheduled c-section planned for later that week — everything was supposed to be calm, controlled, and predictable. But baby girl had other plans. Two days before the big day, my water broke on a Tuesday afternoon, and before I could even process what was happening, I was being rushed into an emergency c-section at 7pm.

Everything happened so fast. The doctors and nurses moved quickly — I remember the bright lights, the urgency, and then… silence. It was over. But what came next broke me a little: we never got that golden hour. No skin-to-skin. No first cuddle. Just emptiness and a million questions.

It wasn’t until 10pm that I finally saw her — only because my husband fought to make it happen. She was on oxygen, tiny tubes everywhere, struggling with wet lungs. My heart shattered.

The next morning, I was told I could go see her. No one offered to help me get there — not a nurse, not anyone. So less than 24 hours after my c-section, I got up, held my stomach, and walked myself to the NICU. Every step burned, but I needed to see her.

When I finally reached the ward, the sound of machines filled the air — steady beeps, soft hisses of oxygen, the quiet hum of survival. And there she was. My baby. Her tiny body fighting to breathe on her own. I could only hold her little finger through the incubator opening, and in that moment, the world stood still.

I can still remember the smell of that room, the soft whirring of monitors, the way the nurses moved around the tiny preemies — babies born at barely 26 weeks. My little girl was full-term, strong compared to them, and because of that, she didn’t get much attention. They weren’t as concerned with her. And somehow, that broke me even more.

She spent five days in the NICU, and I couldn’t hold her or breastfeed her at all. All I could do was sit, watch, wait… and try to pump. Those early pumping sessions were discouraging — 5ml here and there, tears streaming down my face, wondering if my body was failing me.

Every day felt like a lifetime. I woke up each morning praying today would be the day we could take her home. But every time I asked, the answers were vague — “we’re still waiting for blood results,” “just one more test,” “maybe tomorrow.” There was never any clarity, only uncertainty. The waiting broke me. I felt helpless, distraught, desperate to just hold my baby without wires, without permission.

But here’s the part that still gives me goosebumps: the moment we finally got to take her home and she was placed on my chest… she latched. Instinctively. Naturally. Perfectly.

And just like that — my milk came flowing in.

Those first few days were nothing like I imagined, but they taught me something I’ll never forget: motherhood doesn’t always start the way you planned, but it unfolds exactly the way it’s meant to.

When we finally settled in at home, it felt like I could breathe for the first time. That’s where the next part of our story begins — finding our rhythm.

E x

The very first moment we met.

Part 1: Right here, right now

For almost six months, breastfeeding has been one of the biggest parts of my world. It’s been my constant — the early-morning cuddles, the late-night feeds, the sound of the pump humming in the background while the rest of the world sleeps.

When I started, I didn’t realize how much feeding would shape me — not just physically, but emotionally and mentally too. I thought it would be simple: you nurse, you bond, you keep going. But somewhere along the way, I learned that feeding a baby can also feed your doubts, your exhaustion, and your sense of being stretched too thin.

A few weeks ago, I discovered that what I’ve been experiencing has a name: Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex (D-MER). It’s a sudden wave of sadness, anxiety, or emptiness that comes just as the milk lets down — a reflex I can’t control, but one that has quietly affected my heart for months. It happens mostly when I pump, and even though I love giving my baby the best, it’s taken a toll on my mental health and hormones.

For a long time, I tried to push through. I told myself I just had to “keep going.” But recently, I realized something important: I don’t have to lose myself to feed my baby.

So this is where my journey changes direction. I’m starting to transition from exclusive breastfeeding to formula — gently, slowly, and without guilt. My baby has started solids, still feeds at night, and is happy and thriving. But this time, I’m making a decision for both of us.

Because feeding isn’t only about milk. It’s about the moments — the peace, the balance, the connection, the love.

And as much as I want to celebrate the beauty of breastfeeding, I also want to be honest about the parts we don’t often talk about: the mental strain, the hormonal shifts, the guilt, and the quiet grief that sometimes comes with deciding to stop.

Milk & Moments is a space for that honesty. A space for real mothers, real stories, and real hearts.

If you’re a mom who’s ever cried during a feed, who’s ever questioned whether she’s doing enough, or who’s just trying to find herself again — this is for you.

Because motherhood is made up of a million tiny moments — and every single one of them counts.

E x