I knew breastfeeding wasn’t going to be all sunshine and skin-to-skin snuggles while harp music played softly in the background — but I wasn’t prepared for my nipples to feel like I was dipping them in lava.

The books said “you might feel some discomfort.”
Discomfort?? Ma’am, my nipples were on fire. I was icing them like I was training for the Olympics. I had a gel pad in my bra, a frozen cabbage leaf on standby, and I swear I saw my left nipple try to file a restraining order.

Nobody warned me that a 7-pound baby could latch on with the intensity of a shark sensing blood. “Is she latched correctly?” people would ask. I don’t know, Brenda — unless the correct latch involves razor blades, I’m going to go with no.

And don’t even get me started on cluster feeding. That’s when your sweet angel decides to eat every 20 minutes for several hours just for the vibes. My boobs were like, “Can we live? Can we BREATHE??”

But you know what’s wild? I kept going. We figured it out, mostly. I cried, I cussed (silently… okay, not silently), and I learned to position her just right. We got through the scabs, the leaks, the milk-on-the-ceiling moments. And now, dare I say it… it almost feels normal?

Breastfeeding is beautiful, they say. And yeah, it is — somewhere between the nipple cream, the tears, and the eight lactation cookies I ate purely for morale.

To all the breastfeeding mamas out there: you are not alone. And to my nipples: I’m sorry. You didn’t sign up for this.