My Personal Journy

This Is My Flow

My Flow, My journey, My Story

The first time I fell in love with lactation was with my first child. I can still remember the way she’d curl into me, her tiny fingers resting on my chest, her soft suckling like a heartbeat in sync with mine. That feeling of being able to truly nurture her—of providing something no one else could—was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was empowering, emotional, and almost sacred. My flow came easily, and I became what they call an overproducer. At the time, I didn’t even know that was a term. I just knew I had milk—lots of it—and I loved that I could give so much of myself to her.

Looking back now, I wish the world had been different. There were no apps, no social media groups, no real online support. I didn’t know where to look, who to ask, or even what was normal. I was doing the best I could, fumbling through this beautiful chaos. If I had had the knowledge and technology we have now, I might have continued for much longer. Maybe even for years. But like most good things in life, it eventually came to an end. Still, the love I felt for the experience never left me.

Everything changed with my second child. This little boy was different from the start. He was fussy, resistant, and refused to latch. No matter what I tried—different positions, calming sounds, lactation consultants—he just wouldn’t nurse. It broke my heart. I felt rejected in a way only a mother can understand. So, I turned to pumping. At first, it worked. I was able to feed him, bond with him, and provide what he needed.

But around the six-month mark, things started to shift. My supply dropped—slowly at first, then drastically. I was trying everything: teas, power pumping, oatmeal, massage. Nothing helped. And back then, there weren’t many places to turn. Social media was still in its early days. Google wasn’t yet a fountain of information. I remember crying at the kitchen table with a half-full bottle and sore breasts, wondering what I did wrong.

Then one day, months after I had packed up my supplies and accepted the end, my breasts started to ache. I didn’t have a pump, so I hand expressed—just enough for relief. I thought it was a one-time thing. I had no idea it would spark something much deeper.

One night, while we were being intimate, my husband noticed I was uncomfortable and offered to help relieve the pressure. I hesitated, but then said yes. That night was… different. He was gentle, loving, and surprisingly enthusiastic. I felt seen, nurtured, and deeply connected. That experience opened something in both of us.

Within two weeks, I had ordered a new pump. My body responded almost immediately. I started expressing again and before long, I had enough to fill the freezer. The joy I felt returning to lactation—even without a baby needing it—was hard to explain. It was sensual, emotional, and healing.

Our son, now a toddler, had moved on to juice and cow's milk. So I began donating my milk to our local NICU. I felt purpose again. My body was doing something important, something powerful. But then, like before, life happened. Schedules changed, stress increased, and eventually, the milk stopped flowing again.

Years later, life threw me another curveball. I took custody of a young girl who was going through a rough time. After about a year of living with us, she came to me with news—I’ll never forget her face when she said it: she was pregnant. I was almost 50, with grandkids already. I had no plans of having a baby in my house again. But life has a way of rewriting your plans.

The baby came. A beautiful little girl. Her mother, sadly, spiraled into reckless behavior. She started leaving for days at a time. Then one day, sheriffs showed up at our door for a welfare check. She had been arrested in another state. Just like that, we had custody of a seven-week-old baby.

She cried constantly. For hours. I tried everything—bottles, swaddles, swings. Nothing worked for long. One night, We discovered a white noise app and after a warm bath, I lay with her skin-to-skin, hoping to calm her. She nestled against me, finally peaceful, and I fell asleep with her tucked under my arm.

When I woke, I felt it warmth on my breast and a fluttering sensation in my belly. She had latched in her sleep. I froze, then melted. She was there. Suckling gently, rhythmically. I didn’t stop her. I didn’t want to. It was like finding something I didn’t know I had lost. I didn't even think to ask her mom if she was breastfeeding her whenever she left, she left us with formula and bottles. I thought maybe when they were alone, she was breastfeeding her. I never saw her make bottles at night. some things started to click/

She continued to latch. Every day. Every nap. She never wanted to stop. I thought it was just for comfort. But I began to feel the familiar tug of let-down, the ache of full breasts, the tenderness that always came before flow. I tried to express, but nothing came. Still, I knew. Something was happening.

Four weeks went by like that. She was still latching, still showing signs of satisfaction, still needing me in that very primal, beautiful way. Then one day, I was in the shower. I reached up to wash, rubbed gently with a washcloth, and—whoosh!—milk sprayed across the shower wall.

I gasped. Then I laughed. Then I cried. It was real. I was lactating again.

It felt like a miracle. Sometimes I didn't know if she was feeding and got tired, she didn't want her bottle. I could see her little belly kinda full and the diapers were wet.

Now I had this beautiful baby girl, who I loved like my own, and a body that was doing what it was made to do—again. I began pumping after she fed. Three ounces per side per session. It didn’t feel like much, but it was ours.

And then there was my husband. He had supported me through everything, and he adored this baby just as much as I did. He loved our connection, our bond, our special time together. But I was focused on saving every drop for her. That meant saying no more often. At first, he was understanding. He said he was fine.

But I knew. I saw it in his eyes on the nights I pulled away. The longing. The ache. And some nights? I just couldn’t say no. Because this journey wasn’t just mine. It was ours. And love takes many forms—milk, touch, sacrifice, and compromise.

This is my flow. My honest, raw, complicated, beautiful flow. It’s messy. It’s magical. And it’s far from over. To be continued ......