10/11/2025
I pull the blanket halfway up,
pretending it’s for the baby
but really, it’s my shield.
My heart beats louder than her little suck-suck-swallow rhythm.
Because somehow, somehow,
feeding my baby became a statement.
I can feel the stares
before I even sit down.
Eyes like spotlights.
Hands clutching lattes.
Whispers that weigh more than the diaper bag.
And me?
Just trying to give my baby what she needs
my milk, my warmth, my calm.
I whisper to myself,
“Don’t shake.”
But I do.
Because all my life I was told the other way was normal.
Shiny bottles, neat measurements, sterile plastic perfection.
And now here I am
skin to skin,
heart to heart,
doing the most ancient thing a mother can do
and feeling… wrong?
How did we get here?
How did something sacred turn scandalous?
How did the world forget
that every mammal feeds its young this way
and not one of them feels shame about it?
I am milk and fear and courage mixed together.
I am centuries of mothers before me,
whose only cradle was their chest,
whose only peace was that small sigh when baby was full.
I am them
but I’m also me
shaking in a coffee shop,
wondering if someone will film me,
or worse…
judge me.
But my baby’s eyes meet mine.
And in that look, I hear her say,
“It’s okay, Mama. You’re home.”
Right here.
In this body.
In this moment.
Doing exactly what we were made to do.
So I breathe.
And let the world watch if it wants to.
Because this this is not shame.
This is love made visible.
This is biology, bravery, and bond.
This is me feeding life.
And for the first time,
I’m not sorry.
