Is it normal to cry because I can’t breastfeed my baby?

Question by Emma D., 31, Valdivia, Chile. Mom to a 5-week old baby boy, Diego. 

Emma struggled with low milk supply and latching issues; switched to formula after weeks of trying everything. Watching all her mom friends breastfeed and hearing comments from her mother-in-law and aunts is frustrating. She feels like she's failing. 

Mama, 

Yes. It is so normal. More than that, it’s human.

I cried, too.
Not just once, not just a little. I cried hard, ugly, soul-heavy tears that soaked my shirt and blurred my vision while I held a bottle in one hand and a twin in the other.

I remember standing in the kitchen with a pump strapped to me, clocking another hour of trying, and praying that my milk would finally be enough. I remember watching the ounces trickle in—barely anything—and feeling like my body had betrayed me. Like I was broken in the one way that felt like it mattered most.

I had twins, and I still told myself: "If I had really tried hard enough, I could have made it work."
Never mind the lactation consultants. The cluster feeds. The supplements. The triple feeding.
Never mind that I was already giving everything I had.
I still grieved. I still felt shame. I still thought I’d failed.

And here’s what I want to tell you:
You did not fail.
Your tears don’t mean you’re ungrateful.
They mean you loved your baby so much that you gave your body, your time, your energy, your hope—and still had the strength to pivot when your baby needed more than your milk could give.

That is not failure. That is motherhood.

It’s okay to cry because it didn’t look the way you imagined.
You’re allowed to mourn the soft, connected moments you thought breastfeeding would bring.
You’re allowed to feel sad that your story looks different than someone else’s.
You're allowed to grieve — and still know you made the right call.

It doesn’t mean you love your baby any less.
It doesn’t mean your bond is weaker.
It doesn’t mean you didn’t try hard enough.
It means you’re a mom — a real one. One who’s learning to forgive her body for being human, and learning to hold herself with the same compassion she gives her baby.

You know what’s beautiful?
Your baby won’t remember how they were fed.
But they will remember how it felt to be loved.
And that’s what you’re doing — through tears, through bottles, through every ache you carry quietly.

So cry when you need to.
Grieve what you hoped for.
Then lift your chin and remind yourself: this kind of love — the kind that adjusts, endures, and keeps showing up — this is what makes you a damn good mom.

Love,
Lina P.