There I was, not much more than 24 hours after my lo was born, openly weeping in my hospital bed, nipples cracked and bleeding, exhausted from recovery of a 4th degree tear, and feeling like a complete failure because I couldn’t figure out how to feed my baby. Nurses and lactation specialists came in and went out. For a few moments, I actually felt successful. But it continued to hurt. Toe curling pain. It would take 3 months to latch pain free. Breastfeeding is hardwork.

Two days after delivery, my dear husband took me to the local breastfeeding support group. Thanks to a dear friend who pushed me to go. I became an addict of sorts, attending meetings 3 days a week. I joined various online chat groups and asked questions about nursing at 3 a.m., to which responses came in at 3:05 a.m. from other bleary-eyed nursing moms. I needed the companionship. Breastfeeding is normal.

I weighed her obsessively. And when that didn’t work, I pumped and considered pumping exclusively. I spent hours online researching things like tongue ties, silver cups, things you can do with coconut oil, and the flipple technique. Every pound gained, every ounce (who am I kidding here, less than an ounce early on) meant that it was working. That the pain and the tears were all worth it. Breastfeeding is anxiety, but it is also rewarding.

I sat glued to the couch, reading “The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding” and thinking, WHY OH WHY did I spend so much of my pregnant time worried about the pain of childbirth when this is what I should have been reading up on. But I thought I knew. I thought, how hard can it be? Women have been doing this for generation after generation. Breastfeeding is knowledge.

I nursed for hours on end, and even had a 9 hour marathon session one day. I worked constantly at correcting a shallow latch that left scars on my nipples. For 10 months, I soothed a recurring milk blister with hot compresses. Breastfeeding is patience.

I watched as my dear husband brought me juice in sippy cups so I wouldn’t soil the couch and made me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at midnight. Who dried my tears when I couldn’t cope and who took me for walks so I could get out of the house for a few minutes.

I watched as my mother, who formula fed, searched for the words to help me through because she loves me as much as I love that little one and she didn’t want to see me in pain.

I watched as my new dear friends went through their own breastfeeding struggles. I hurt for them, because I know they wanted it so badly. But like the mother warriors they are, I watched them rise above and find a path that worked for them and their baby. Their stories still amaze me to this day.

I watched as those beautiful gray eyes looked up at me. And my heart burst.

Breastfeeding is love.