Why do I cry in my car after pumping milk at work?

Question from Camille H., 28, Lille, France. Mom to a 4-month-old baby boy, Tomás.

Camille's maternity leave is up. She's back to work full-time on a hybrid schedule — pumping at home and in the office. It seemed perfect, but she's increasingly frustrated by her afternoon crying sessions in her car while she's on a break after pumping milk. 

Mama, 

I feel this one so deeply.

For some moms, it's crying in their car. For me, it was crying in the bathroom, breast pump still whirring in the background, my laptop pinging with Slack messages I didn’t have the energy to answer. Sometimes it was my desk, mute button on, camera off, tears quietly rolling while I tried to keep up with a meeting and hold myself together.

It’s not just the pumping.
It’s what it represents.

The way you're giving everything — your time, your body, your mental bandwidth — and still feeling like it's not enough. The ache of being away from your baby. The pressure of pretending you’re “back to normal” at work when your entire identity has shifted.

Pumping isn’t just a physical task. It’s an emotional minefield. It’s full of questions like:

• Is this enough milk?
• Am I enough?
• How long can I keep this up before I break?

You sit in that room, or that car, or that cramped corner of your house with a sign on the door and a lump in your throat — and it’s not just about milk. It’s about mourning the version of yourself who didn’t feel this invisible.

When I was pumping for my twins, I thought I’d feel empowered. Like a warrior mom. But more often, I felt fragile. Lonely. Resentful. Tired in ways I didn’t know a body could be tired. And the worst part? I didn’t feel like I could say any of it out loud.

Because the world celebrates the bottle. The freezer stash. The “strong working mom.” But it doesn’t always see the cracked nipples, the missed meetings, the tears behind a locked bathroom door.

Camille, I want you to know:

• Crying after pumping doesn’t make you weak.
• Needing space to grieve this version of motherhood doesn’t make you ungrateful.
• Wanting more softness, more support, more room to breathe — that doesn’t make you less of a mom.

It makes you real.

You are doing sacred, invisible work.
You are mothering in stolen minutes.
You are loving in every drop you give — and every tear you shed.

Please don’t mistake your breaking points for failure. They’re proof of how much you care.

Love,
Lina P.