Breastfeeding Awareness Month

Breast milk donation is probably the last thing that comes to mind when you're looking through the eyes of loss.

It was five weeks after learning that my son wouldn't live long after birth that the idea of donating my milk even crossed my mind. The purpose of donating breast milk is to save the lives of babies who need it most. But if I'm honest, that wasn't what first led me to become a bereavement donor.

At first, I wasn't thinking about saving someone else's baby.

I was simply trying to hold on to mine.

The day you find out you're pregnant, your mind begins to imagine all of the possibilities to come.

The day you prepare for the loss of your baby, your mind begins preparing for the unimaginable.

Secondary loss hits hard, and it comes often.

For me, breastfeeding became one of those secondary losses.

Earlier in my pregnancy, I had bought the perfect shirt to wear while breastfeeding at night. It seems silly, but it's the little things that make you so excited for new life. I would never get to wear that shirt the way I had imagined. I would never wake in the quiet hours of the night to feed my son. I would never breastfeed him.

As if preparing for his loss wasn't already heavy enough, grief kicked me in the gut once again.

Now what?

For me, the answer became breast milk donation.

It was the only way I could "pretend" to breastfeed my son. Maybe that sounds dark or even depressing to you, but when you're a grieving mother, you're constantly asking yourself, What now?

As the days went by, something began to change. What started as desperately trying to hold onto my son became something much deeper.

It became love.

It became compassion.

It became purpose.

MY son was helping save babies.

MY son became a beacon of hope for the mother sitting beside her baby in the NICU, relying on donor milk during her own difficult journey.

MY son was the hero.

And I had the incredible privilege of going along for the ride as his mommy.

What an honor.

Every time I pumped, I should have been nursing him. Instead, we were saving lives together. Every bottle my children helped freeze. Every bottle they helped wash. Zeke was teaching them what it means to give selflessly.

Over eight months, I pumped more than 5,300 ounces of breast milk for The Milk Bank in Indianapolis. Eight months of pumping every day. Eight months of bonding with Zeke in a way I never imagined was possible.

That was my journey.

That was my healing.

But that's only my story.

It isn't the only story.

Every mother who loses her baby is faced with impossible decisions. Decisions no parent should ever have to make. Whether she chooses to donate her milk, suppress her milk, or simply make it through one day at a time, her decision is valid.

There is no right way to walk through this kind of grief.

Breastfeeding Awareness Month isn't only about celebrating the journey of breastfeeding. It's also about making space for the mothers whose journey looked different than they ever imagined.

So during Breastfeeding Awareness Month, I invite you to remember the mothers who were robbed of the choice to breastfeed.

Remember the mothers who donated their milk as one final act of love.

Remember the mothers who painfully dried up their milk while carrying an empty heart.

Remember the mothers who made the decision that was right for them, through tears and unimaginable heartache.

And above all, remember that every one of them is still a mother.

Because every minute mattered.

And every mother's story matters.