This past weekend, I sat at a farm feeding my seven-month-old a bottle.
If you had told me before I became a mom that the bottle would hold donor breastmilk combined with a little homemade formula, I would have told you that you were seriously mistaken.
Me? I was going to breastfeed until my babies were AT LEAST two. Likely longer. I was here for it.
Let’s rewind.
Before my babies were born, I knew how I wanted to nourish them. I understood the incredible benefits of breastmilk, and I looked forward to nursing. The nourishment. The bonding. My body continuing to care for the little person it had grown.
With my first, pregnancy was fantastic. Smooth as butter. Labor and birth were tough, but I had the incredible blessing of giving birth at home, recovering well, and holding a healthy baby.
Then came breastfeeding.
Ohhhhh, breastfeeding.
We had such a difficult journey. I developed mastitis so badly that I remember wondering how my breast could possibly recover. Honestly, I thought there was a possibility we were going to have to chop it off. I spent days in bed with sharp, lightning-like pains in my head and body aches that made my ankles feel sprained. Every breath came with a deep ache in my breast. Moving hurt. Nursing hurt.
Afterward, my milk supply plummeted.
We did bodywork. We had a tongue-tie release, which I had sworn I would never do. I spent a month triple feeding (IYKYK) and everything else under the sun.
The nutrition. The remedies. The herbs. The latch work. All the praying.
So many tears.
—
At eight months, I remember pumping for thirty minutes and getting a couple of drops.
That was the moment.
The moment of surrender.
I had done my absolute best. I had given it everything I had. It was time to stop pumping.
And that was something I had to grieve.
—
The thousands of ounces of donor breastmilk we received throughout his first year were nothing short of a miracle. He made it to a year on breastmilk, but most of it wasn’t mine.
I have countless stories of how God provided that milk. Glory to God!
If I have ever shared those stories with you face-to-face, you have probably seen me shed a tear.
Because those bags of milk represented so much. Another mama’s time. Her energy. Her nourishment. The hours she spent pumping, washing parts, storing milk, and coordinating a way to get it to us. Her family sharing some of their time so she could help feed my baby.
It was incredibly humbling to receive that kind of love.
A gift I will never forget.
—
Before we conceived #2, I did even more research relating to TOTs (tethered oral tissues). My husband and I decided to start a protocol that may help with cellular function and communication to decrease the chance of the next baby having such a severe tongue-tie so the breastfeeding journey could be different.
Of course we know it takes 120 days for a follicle to mature and 70-90 days for sperm to mature. We started six months prior to conception.
—
When I became pregnant with my second, I did everything I could think of with my knowledge and resources.
I paid close attention to my nutrition. I got professional lymphatic massages and did self daily lymph massage. I tracked my insulin sensitivity. I revisited what we had tried the first time and thought through what we might do differently.
I wanted to know I had done everything I reasonably could.
I also knew I would have to surrender the outcome.
Knowing that and living it are two very different things.
After my second was born, my milk came in less than forty-eight hours after birth, and it was flowing. Praise God! I was feeling hopful.
Very quickly though, feeding concerns showed up again. We brought in help early. My lactation consultant, the AMAZING Nicole with Hub City Lactation, came the day after his birth. We did bodywork and exercises, and eventually another tie release.
I’ve seen many many many newborns with no TOTs, questionable TOTs, and for sure TOTs affecting function. You guys, both of my boys had the most severe tethered ties I had seen to date. Heart shape tongues because the midline tension was taught. They were able to lift their tongues off the floor of their mouths mayyyyyybe a millimeter.
Despite the painful latch, I felt hopeful. Maybe this time would be different. Even though his tie looked just as my 1st’s did, he was still able to get more milk and gained weight quickly.
We made it to three weeks without mastitis. That felt like a win.
Then week four hit.
Mastitis.
I caught it earlier this time, but there was a stretch of about thirty-six hours when I couldn’t get a letdown. It was scary. The pain and inflammation were a lot.
As that finally began to resolve, less than twenty-four hours later, I developed lymphangitis on the other side.
I mean, I cannot make this stuff up.
I kept pumping and watched my supply fall.
Again.
I felt defeated. I had worked so hard to have a different experience, and here I was, facing something painfully familiar.
I wanted my baby to have my milk. I put so much care into nourishing myself, and I wanted to pass that nourishment on to him. I wanted the experience of nursing him and that closeness I had pictured. I wanted to have the victorious story and redemption from the previous time.
Eventually, I was pumping drops again.
And I knew it was time to stop.
This time, I knew I couldn’t spend the coming months searching everywhere and screening for donor milk. I started looking into other feeding options while making peace with another ending I hadn’t wanted.
Then God provided again.
Local moms offered milk without me even asking. I mean these mom’s didn’t know our story but out of the blue I was receiving messages of extra milk and looking for a baby who needed it. Suddenly, we were months further on breastmilk.
More tears.
More stories of God’s provision.
More gratitude for women who may never fully understand what their generosity has meant to our family.
When I fed my first baby a bottle in public, I probably wouldn’t have admitted it then, but I was a little embarrassed. I wanted people to know the whole story.
That I had tried. That I cared. That this wasn’t what I had planned.
—
This time, I look at that bottle differently.
It still holds some grief. Although this isn’t the story I would have written, it’s the experience God has allowed me to live.
In this moment, this bottle represents: humility, surrender, a village, gratitude.
It reminds me of the women who helped feed my babies and the ways God cared for us through them.
And while I’m holding that bottle, I’m still holding my baby. Looking into his eyes. Learning his little expressions. Feeding him with love. He’s holding my pointer finger as he breaks the seal and giggles with me.
There is closeness here, too.
—
So, to the mom who planned to do it all naturally…
Maybe you planned a home birth and ended up transferring to the hospital.
Maybe you prepared for an unmedicated birth and chose an epidural, or needed a C-section you hadn’t imagined.
Maybe you hadn’t taken an Advil in five years, and then recovery required medication.
Maybe you hoped to breastfeed for years and found yourself researching bottles and formula instead.
Maybe you wanted to make every meal from scratch, and today lunch came out of a package.
Maybe you pictured cloth diapers drying in the sunshine, and there is currently a very large box of disposable diapers by your front door.
Maybe you tried the home remedies, asked the questions, and still needed an antibiotic for yourself or your child.
Maybe you planned to handle postpartum with nourishing meals, sunshine, and a strong support system, and you also needed counseling or medication.
You are allowed to feel disappointed when something you cared deeply about doesn’t happen.
You can be grateful for the help and still grieve needing it. You can love your baby fiercely and still wish part of your story had been different.
I want to say this to you as a mama who has cried over a breast pump more times than she can count:
Having to change your plan does not mean you failed your child.
“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the LORD establishes their steps.” — Proverbs 16:9
I keep coming back to that.
I can make thoughtful plans. I can prepare, learn, ask questions, and care deeply about the decisions I make for my family.
Then I have to live the days that actually come.
My sister said it best:
“Motherhood is sanctifying.”
It has brought me face-to-face with expectations I didn’t realize I was carrying. It has taught me to receive help, to acknowledge my limits, and to trust God in places where I really wanted to control the ending.
I’m still learning.
So make your plans, mama. Care deeply. Prepare well.
And let God shape you as you walk through the story you’re actually living.
Who you become in the process matters so much more than keeping a list of things you thought you would never do.
—
Homemade Formula Recipe
I tried a few homemade formulated recipes for infant milk after much research. The one we landed on was Joe Stout’s, who was a president of Mt. Capra. We used Mt. Capra Goat Milk Formula Recipe using mostly Mt. Capra’s well-sourced ingredients. This recipe is not on their website for legal reason but can still be found on a few websites. Jacqueline has a blog with research and the formula ingredients.
I used these pitchers and made a 24 oz batch every other day.
This is not medical advice. Consult your physician for advice. I’m simply sharing our experience so that you know you have options.