What makes a mom not just a good mom, but a great mom?
When I was pregnant, I asked myself this question constantly. Back then, my answer was simple: making sure I give my baby the absolute best at all costs. Easy, right? My expectations were sky-high, and I thought nothing could ever be more important than him. What I didn’t realize was how much I would need to adjust my expectations just to accept my reality.
The day my son was born was the only moment in my life where time truly stood still. My boyfriend stepped into the father role effortlessly, setting aside his typically shy, reserved personality to embrace every new learning experience. My mother instantly became the “perfect grandson’s Nana” we all knew she’d be. His Auntie wrapped him in her gentle, calming presence, making everyone feel safe and at home. My heart was fuller than it had ever been.
And then it was my turn.
I had imagined this moment for months—the magical bond everyone told me about. I held my baby to my breast, expecting instant connection. Instead, I got a screaming baby, latching on and off in frustration because my milk hadn’t come in fast enough. My nurse’s words were comforting: “It can take a couple days for the milk to come in fully. The baby’s learning too.” I clung to that reassurance, determined to keep going, no matter what.
But the following weeks were nothing I could have anticipated. My baby was losing weight, and I felt like I was practically living at the doctor’s office. Lactation appointments, weight checks, routine visits—it seemed like most of my baby’s first moments were consumed with conversations about my breasts and milk rather than about him. I became obsessed with his weight: how much he was gaining, losing, and could afford to lose. Every lactation consultant repeated the same phrases: “Breast is best. Keep trying. You’re doing everything right—it gets better.”
I kept wondering—does it get better? How many tears would I shed over my skinny, hungry baby before I could accept that enough was enough? How many sleepless nights could my body endure feeding him every hour to keep him above his birth weight? How much money would I spend on pumps, supplements, and products just to get this “right”? And yet, those words haunted me: Breast is best. It gets better.
At his one-month appointment, he was still at birth weight. I remember sobbing like I was at a funeral. His pediatrician recommended supplementing with formula while continuing to pump to increase my supply. That first bottle of formula shattered me. Lying in bed, tears streaming, I spiraled into dark thoughts: Why can’t I do this like everyone else? If formula didn’t exist, would my baby suffer? Will he love me less? Did my body fail him?
The moment we started formula, I saw an unexpected change. My baby flourished. He wasn’t crying or hungry constantly. He was discovering the world, smiling, interacting with me beyond just a food source. We were finally bonding. The relief and joy were immense—but a part of me still felt empty.
Anger followed. Anger at the moms who never struggled, who bragged about their oversupply, who flaunted exclusively breastfed babies in clothes that read, “Don’t be jealous of my breastfed belly.” I found comfort only in connecting with other moms who shared my struggles, who understood my insecurities and frustrations.
By month three, my pumping yielded only about two ounces per session—barely enough to feed half of what my baby needed. I searched endlessly for answers, hearing again and again, “Have you had your thyroid checked? Something must be wrong with you. There’s no reason your body shouldn’t produce milk.” Desperate, I visited doctors repeatedly, unable to accept that this might just be the way it was.
By month four, my supply had dwindled further—half an ounce at most—and pumping consumed all my free time. I felt disgusted with myself. I knew that putting the pump down would give me more time to hold my baby, to watch him grow, to explore and learn. But I couldn’t let go of the expectation I had set for myself.
Looking back, I realize “breast is best” should never be the mantra given to a new mom. Instead, we should hear: “Do your best—whatever that looks like.” Maybe that’s exclusive breastfeeding, maybe formula, or maybe a mix of both. What truly matters is that babies are fed. Nutrition is nutrition. Period.
And we need to be kinder to each other. Mom guilt will find us plenty in the coming years, but it doesn’t need to start in those first fragile months. So next time you see a mom giving her baby formula, remember this: her choice doesn’t define her love or her worth. After four long months of struggle, tears, and self-doubt, I finally understood this truth. As I pack away my breast pump for the last time, I know this: I am not just a good mom. I am a great mom.
