What Breastfeeding Feels Like—And Why I’m Still Doing It
Imagine a gentle rhythm: warm skin-to-skin contact, gravity pulling your baby close, the soft hum of your heartbeat in her ear, the rich taste and scent of milk—an embrace of comfort, nourishment, and emotional bonding. For many of us, breastfeeding isn’t just feeding—it’s security, satisfaction, and connection wrapped into one intimate experience.
And for me, it became something sacred.
My Story
When I was pregnant with my daughter, Jurnee, I had one major goal: I was going to breastfeed. I didn’t grow up seeing it. I didn’t have friends who talked about it. But I wanted it for her—and for me.
So I did my research. I read, saved posts, watched videos. Still, when Jurnee was born and didn’t latch right away, I felt like a failure. All that preparation, and my baby still couldn’t feed from me. Thankfully, my OB—who happened to be a Black woman—referred me to incredible lactation consultants. They worked with me patiently. Helped me try different positions, tools, and holds. But the turning point?
A Black NICU nurse.
Jurnee was admitted for bilirubin shortly after birth, and while I was scared and overwhelmed, this nurse took the time to talk to me—not just clinically, but humanly. She touched my shoulder, shared her own breastfeeding story, and showed me products to help save the letdown from the breast Jurnee wasn’t feeding from. She helped me feel less broken. Less alone.
And Then…We Thrived
Jurnee was exclusively breastfed for her first six months—no formula, just my milk. When we added solids, breastmilk was still her primary source of nutrition. I was lucky to take six months of maternity leave, and when I returned to work, I pumped religiously to keep our journey going.
By the time she turned one, we were still going strong.
That’s when the comments started.
“I’m sick of seeing your titties.”
“She has teeth—she don’t need that milk.”
“She’s too old for that.”
“You need to stop already.”
People made it sound like I was doing something shameful. Something weak. Something wrong. But I wasn’t. I was following my daughter’s cues. Honoring our bond. Choosing what felt right over what made other people comfortable.
And now that she’s almost two, we’re still breastfeeding.
Why This Matters—Especially for Black Moms
Culturally, Black women in the U.S. are less likely to breastfeed—and more likely to stop before 12 months. According to the CDC:
Only 69% of Black infants are ever breastfed, compared to 86% of White infants.
By six months, just 45% of Black infants are still receiving any breast milk.
At twelve months, that number drops to 17%—nearly half the rate of White infants.
The reasons? They run deep.
Historical trauma: From slavery-era wet nursing to ongoing medical mistrust, breastfeeding hasn't always felt safe or empowering in our communities.
Lack of support: Many of us don’t grow up seeing breastfeeding modeled, and there’s stigma around “doing too much” or not snapping back.
Workplace barriers: Black women are overrepresented in jobs that don’t offer paid leave or pumping breaks.
Representation gaps: From hospital practices to lactation consultants, we’re often unsupported in spaces designed without us in mind.
Why I Keep Going
Breastfeeding feels like:
Her small hand playing with my curls while she feeds
Her body melting into mine in the middle of the night
A quiet way of saying, “I still need you, Mommy”
A steady reminder that nourishment isn’t just food—it’s love
It’s not just a bottle alternative. It’s medicine. It’s bonding. It’s a lifestyle shift. And it’s one of the most natural things I’ve ever done—but also one of the hardest.
Still, I love knowing exactly what's in her milk. I love that it comes from me—unprocessed, unfiltered, made for her in real-time. And honestly? I’m proud. Not because I made it this far, but because I kept choosing it over and over, despite the noise.
For Any Black Mama Considering It
Breastfeeding is a journey—not a straight line. Whether you nurse for a week, six months, or two years, you deserve to be supported, respected, and seen. We need more spaces that honor our experience, more professionals who look like us, and more stories like mine and yours.
If you want to breastfeed, I’m here to tell you: it’s possible. It’s powerful. And it’s yours to define.
With Stregnth and Softness,
Shatarra