I don’t remember anyone asking me if I actually wanted to breastfeed. In my immediate, post-C-section stupor of vacillating between wondering if I was still alive and if the feeling was ever going to return to my legs, it wasn’t exactly top of mind. All of a sudden, this tiny baby was on my chest and my midwife was squeezing hard on my left nipple until a drop of yellowy-brown (ugh) liquid came out. Apparently this is normal and is called colostrum, or “first milk.” My baby instinctively reached for it with her little guppy mouth, and I guess that’s what we call the miracle of life!
Before giving birth, I didn’t have particularly strong feelings about breastfeeding. I figured that if my body was willing, I should probably do it. The American Academy of Pediatrics recently updated their guidelines to recommend babies be breastfed until two years of age or longer, up from the previous recommendation of breastfeeding for the first 12 months, but I didn’t make it to either of those benchmarks. The day my daughter turned nine months old, I threw in the towel on breastfeeding for good. Why? Simple: I missed having sex.
I was fortunate that quitting breastfeeding was my choice. My body was almost annoyingly excellent at making milk and I had no significant issues with supply, latching, or tongue ties. I went back to work after three months and was both pumping and nursing regularly. She was taking a bottle, and our freezer was packed with bags of milk extruded from my bags of milk. But this whole routine was coming at a high cost, and I didn’t want to pay anymore.
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A Fun Thing they don’t tell you about breastfeeding is that it can cause pretty extreme vaginal dryness due to lowered levels of estrogen (it sure did!). Sex with my husband was painful, which sucked, and there’s a lot of contradictory information out there about what lube is recommended and proven to be safe and comfortable postpartum while breastfeeding. Even the most basic ones we tried didn’t do much of anything for us.
This was becoming a pretty significant issue given that by that point, my husband and I had gone well over a year (!!!) without having anything that even resembled good sex. My pregnancy was filled with all-day nausea and vomiting for six months, then raging indigestion and heartburn for the rest, so sex was off the table the whole time I was pregnant. This was not at all what Pornhub’s “Pregnant” categories had promised me.
Once I gave birth, the vaginal dryness was only part of the problem. The sensation of our infant’s next meal sloshing around in my tits was also not helpful when it came to getting swept up in the mood. Breastfeeding affects not only estrogen levels, but also oxytocin, prolactin, and relaxin—all hormones that can fuck with your libido and change how you’re used to your body responding during sex. I experienced a lot of numbness around my c-section scar, joint pain in my knees, and ringing in my ears. All of that, combined with my generally feral postpartum appearance, turned me into a person I didn’t recognize: someone who no longer even liked sex.
I’m no doctor, but neither are 99.9 percent of the people who write those awful pregnancy books, so after 18 long months without good sex, I finally wrote my own prescription: Quit.
It was an easy choice in many ways, but not all. I wrestled with guilt. I know so many people struggle with their milk supply or other related issues and only wish they could nurse their babies. What kind of asshole was I to be blessed with these milk jugs when all I wanted to do was stop so that I could maybe enjoy sex again? My husband was on board with me breastfeeding initially, but when he saw the toll it was taking on me, I think he wished I had stopped even sooner. I was also worried about what the transition would be like for my baby and whether it would affect our connection. Especially since I was working long hours, our nursing time was special and made me feel like I was still there for her.
But I also knew that breastfeeding was making me feel like my body wasn’t my own. It’s a real mind fuck to go from an entire life of bodily autonomy to suddenly sharing that body with someone else, and breastfeeding kept me on a 24-hour schedule. It dictated how long I could be out, how much I could drink, and all in all, it had become too much for me. It was bittersweet to close that chapter of my daughter’s infancy, and the last time I breastfed her I took a bunch of weird selfies to immortalize it. I look forward to using them to humiliate her one day.
Quitting breastfeeding isn’t an exact science. You just kind of have to do it less and less until your body takes the cue to stop producing milk altogether, but mine wasn’t going down without a fight. I pumped for shorter periods, trying to do it gradually, but really I just felt like exploding for weeks. I tried tucking cold cabbage leaves into my disgusting nursing bra full of leaked milk because it’s supposed to help both reduce inflammation and dry up supply. I’m not sure it did anything, but along with all the other “natural remedies” I tried during pregnancy/birth/post-birth, there was a low bar for efficacy. If it made me feel even slightly better for a shred of a moment, it was worth a shot.
It took over a month for me to fully wean. My baby seemed largely indifferent, happy to transition to a combo of formula and blowing through our freezer stash. Finally, I felt free.
It took a few months for my hormones to noticeably adjust. My period returned, and so did my ability to get wet (praise be!). Sex quickly became significantly less painful—I’m not sure how much of that was psychosomatic, but regardless, it got better. I finally felt like I was able to stop fixating on everything that was different about my body, and it helped me be more present and actually experience pleasure.
Quitting breastfeeding felt like the first real choice I made for myself instead of my baby. From the moment I learned I was pregnant, it became shockingly easy to put her needs before mine. Since then, I’ve made a lot more choices for myself, and I know it’s still only the beginning of learning to balance our needs. That first year of infancy is so challenging and demanding, but I couldn’t go on living in survival mode forever. For 18 months—the nine when I carried her, and her first nine in the world—my body was her vessel. But now it’s mine again, and I think that’s ultimately a good thing for all of us.
Now, I feel less tethered to her in an obligatory way, and more like I get to choose how I spend my days with her, which has allowed me to grow into the enjoyment of motherhood. Having a baby can cause an identity earthquake, and having my body back to myself has helped me start connecting who I was before to who I am today.
And the best part? My husband and I are free to have sex 365 days a year. Do I want that? Lol, absolutely not. But it’s all about the possibility. Knowing I can fuck if I want, get drunk if I want, stay out all night if I want. That freedom makes all the difference, everyday, including the days I don’t do anything but be her mother.
Karen Kicak is a television writer, filmmaker, and essayist. She was co-showrunner, executive producer, and writer on the international Emmy-nominated Netflix comedy series Workin’ Moms. She’s had personal essays published in Cosmopolitan UK, HuffPost, Glamour, The Kit, The Toronto Star, The Globe and Mail, and a “Tiny Love Story” in the New York Times. All things considered, she’s pretty good for being a Karen. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter.