She’s Not Just Feeding the Baby—She’s Holding Up a World. Don’t Add Weight.🖤

Mornings feel like marathons now.

She wakes up before the sun, heart already racing, mind already full. The baby stirs beside her—again. She hasn’t slept more than an hour at a stretch. The night was stitched together with feeds and rocking in the dark. Still, the alarm rings, and she pulls herself up. There’s milk to express, bottles to prep, pump parts to clean, baby clothes to wash, prepare her bath table and somehow—she needs to be out the door by 8.30.

The baby is still drowsy, clinging to her warmth. And yet she moves—gently, urgently—because she has a job to reach, deadlines to meet, and a body that’s split between being a mother and being everything else.

On her way out, someone says,

“Try to get up early. Baby slept well, right?”

She pauses. Smiles politely. But inside, something aches.

Because no, the baby didn’t “sleep well.” Not by the old definition of sleep. There were feeds at 1 a.m., 3:45 a.m., and 5:10 a.m. There were moments she lay there, eyes closed, but ears open—listening to the soft whimpers, the shifting breaths, the need for comfort that never clocks out. She wasn’t resting. She was surviving.

But she doesn’t explain. She doesn’t have time to.

She rushes to work, her chest heavy not just with milk, but with worry. Is the baby feeding well? Is the expressed milk enough? Will she be okay without her?

She spends the day trying to meet expectations—her employer’s, her own, society’s unspoken ones. Schedules her breaks by the beep of her milk letdown. All day, her mind flits back to her child—Did she cry too much? Did she drink enough? Is she missing me?

Then, the moment her shift ends, she runs—not figuratively. She runs, skipping goodbyes, skipping snacks, skipping herself. She reaches home breathless, heart pounding with hope.

And the first thing she hears?

“She was cranky. Didn’t eat well. You should’ve come early.”

“She’s crying again. Maybe she’s not full?”

“Is your milk enough?”

She stands there, guilt swelling like a tide. Her kurta still smells of work. Her hands are shaking from the rush. Her breasts feel sore and full. And all she wants is to hold her baby and be told, “You made it. You’re here. That’s enough.”

But instead, it’s another round of subtle jabs disguised as concern. Another sigh from someone. Another to-do handed over, casually,

“Now that I’m holding her, can you go fold the clothes?”

“Clean up that shelf.”

She nods. She always does. But somewhere deep inside, she’s sinking.

And then there’s that sentence she keeps hearing:

“The baby needs milk.”

“She’s crying… she must be hungry.”

Every time the baby reaches for her, fusses, or searches for the breast, it’s labeled hunger.

But she wants to shout:

“No—she doesn’t always need milk. She needs me.”

Because a baby doesn’t suckle just to fill her belly. She suckles for safety. For comfort. For warmth. For connection. For reassurance that her mother is there, her world is intact. It’s not just nutrition—it’s her nervous system regulating through skin, scent, and heartbeat.

To reduce the mother to just milk is to forget that she is home, in every sense.

No, she’s not “just breastfeeding.”

She’s not just feeding a baby—she’s anchoring a soul.

And when people act like she’s only needed for milk, it erases everything else she brings: the voice that soothes, the arms that calm, the eyes that say “I’ve got you.”

She wants to scream:

“Other moms suffered silently. That doesn’t mean they should’ve. That doesn’t mean I should.”

“I’m not failing. I’m stretched.”

“I’m not weak. I’m everything right now.”

But instead, she goes to fold the clothes.

And maybe the hardest part? The one that no one asks about?

Even her partner doesn’t really see her anymore.

He helps—yes. He changes diapers, rocks the baby, cleans bottles. He shows up in all the visible ways. But she feels invisible around him now. They barely talk like they used to. He snaps more often. He says things like:

“You’re overthinking again.”

“It’s not a big deal. Just adjust.”

“I’m also tired, you know.”

And she knows. God, she knows. He is tired. They both are. But she longs for connection, not just cooperation. She misses being held as a person, not only as the mother of their child. She misses the softness in his voice. The warmth in his eyes. The way he used to notice her, not just the baby.

Now, even when she cries quietly in the bathroom, she wipes her own tears. Because asking for emotional space feels like asking too much.

And yet, she still nurse through the night. Still wakes early. Still works. Still gives. Still shows up.

She wants to say:

“I need you too.”

“I’m here, but I’m fading.”

“See me. Not just the tasks I complete.”

But she doesn’t.

Because new mothers—especially the working ones—aren’t just holding babies. They’re holding expectations. Invisible, exhausting, shape-shifting ones. They’re holding in tears, holding back comebacks, holding it together.

She’s tired. Of being told to rest while being handed more.

Tired of being told to “adapt” by people who aren’t understanding anything.

Tired of being questioned for being exhausted when her entire day is an act of devotion.

No one sees the calories she burns nursing. The sleep she loses. The guilt she carries. The way her heart splits between workplace chats and the memory of tiny fingers. The way she doubts herself, constantly, because others do too.

What she needs—what any new mother needs—is not advice. Not corrections. Not passive remarks.

She needs someone to see her.

To sit beside her, even in silence.

To say, “You’re doing enough.”

To remind her that being milk, arms, comfort, presence, provider, and professional—is more than any job description.

She doesn’t need more instructions. She needs less judgment.

So if you see her—truly see her—don’t say this and that.

Just hold her hand. Or say nothing at all.

Because sometimes, the kindest thing you can say to a new mom is simply:

“I see you. And I respect everything you're doing.”