When They Still Need You

Breastfeeding is one of the most beautiful and humbling things I have ever experienced as a mother. From the very beginning, it was high on my list of priorities when I imagined having children. Before my boys were even here, I had done the research, read the studies, listened to the quiet wisdom of other mothers. I knew how remarkable it was, not just emotionally, but biologically.

Breast milk is, in every sense of the word, extraordinary. It is living nourishment. A kind of quiet magic the body produces without ceremony. For babies, it is perfectly tailored nutrition, exactly what they need, when they need it. It carries antibodies that act like a baby’s very first immunization, protecting them from infections, respiratory illnesses, ear infections, and stomach bugs. It supports their developing digestive systems, helps regulate healthy weight gain, and lowers the risk of things like asthma, allergies, Type 1 diabetes, childhood leukemia, and even obesity later in life.

The more I learned, the more I felt a sense of awe. Breast milk isn’t just food. It supports brain development, increases grey matter, and has been linked to higher cognitive scores later on. The physical act of nursing helps shape a baby’s jaw and facial muscles, supporting proper speech and tooth development. It lowers the risk of SIDS. It comforts. It regulates. It nurtures in ways science is still trying to fully understand.

And for mothers, the benefits are just as profound. Breastfeeding helps the body recover after birth, encouraging the uterus to contract and reducing postpartum bleeding. It burns around 500 calories a day, helping the body slowly recalibrate after pregnancy. Long-term, it reduces the risk of breast cancer, ovarian cancer, Type 2 diabetes, and cardiovascular disease.

So naturally, as a mother who loves her children with every cell in her body, it felt incredibly important to follow through with it.

And I did.

I nursed Clover for two full years.

There was even a stretch of time when Murphy was born that I was nursing both of them. Tandem nursing, they call it. Though in practice it often felt more like a circus act. Two little bodies needing me at the same time, two heads trying to fit into the crook of my arms, two sets of hands grabbing, kneading, demanding closeness. It wasn’t exactly graceful. Sometimes I could barely hold them both comfortably, and there were nights when I felt like I might dissolve from exhaustion.

But it was also beautiful.

There is something deeply tender about that closeness, about the quiet weight of a child curled into you, trusting you entirely for comfort and nourishment. It felt primal in the best way. Ancient. Like something women have done in candlelit rooms and quiet farmhouses and city apartments for centuries before me.

Still, breastfeeding is not without its thorns.

There were many nights I felt completely touched out. Two babies nursing through the night, pulling at me, needing me, and only me. There were moments where it felt like they were quite literally sucking the life out of me. My body belonged to them in a way that is hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

And yet I stayed. I continued. Because I believed in it, and because I loved them.

When Clover turned two, I finally weaned him. I had expected it to be emotional and difficult, maybe even dramatic. But surprisingly, it was easier than I thought it would be. Clover is thoughtful. Observant. Even at that age he seemed to understand more than I expected. He knew Murphy was little. He knew Murphy needed it more.

It still stung though.

There was a quiet sadness in that moment. One of those small, almost invisible milestones that motherhood is full of. The first of many steps where your child slowly begins to not need you in the same way. Not less love, but less physical dependence. And that shift, even when it’s healthy, even when it’s right, carries a small ache with it.

And now here I am again. Only this time it’s Murphy.

I can feel the familiar tide beginning to turn inside me. The same quiet whisper that says this season might be nearing its end. The feeling of being touched out has returned. Not in a resentful way, but in a tired, deeply human way. I want my body back. Not in the way people often mean that phrase. Not about losing weight or reclaiming some version of myself from before motherhood. I don’t long for that. What I mean is something simpler.

I want my body to belong to me again for a little while.

I want to lay on my stomach when I’m tired. I want to rest without someone pulling at my shirt. I want to close my eyes and not feel small hands grabbing, kneading, searching for comfort. Not because I wouldn’t give everything for my boys, I would put my body between them and any harm in a heartbeat, but because sometimes I just want a moment where my body can be still and mine.

The other night I tried. Murphy was climbing on me, tugging at me, asking in the way toddlers do without words. I was exhausted. My nerves felt thin. I gently told him no. I rolled onto my stomach and tried to rest. He did not take it well. He cried.

Not the quick protest cry that fades after a moment. This was a determined, heartbroken cry that went on and on. Twenty minutes of it. Twenty minutes of him needing something I was trying, just briefly, not to give. And eventually I caved. Of course I did.

The moment he latched, he quieted almost instantly. Within seconds he was asleep, heavy and peaceful against me like nothing had ever been wrong. And in that moment I realized something. Murphy may not be as easy to wean as Clover was.

Murphy is deeply, emotionally attached. Nursing is not just food for him. It’s comfort, safety, reassurance, connection. It is his reset button when the world feels too big. And while I once said I would nurse him until he was two… I am beginning to think I might actually have to. Even though part of me feels ready to close this chapter.

Motherhood is full of these quiet contradictions. Holding two truths at the same time. Loving something deeply while also feeling ready for it to end. Being grateful for the closeness while also craving a small piece of yourself back.

Breastfeeding has been one of the most intimate and beautiful things I have ever done as a mother. A season of nourishment, sacrifice, exhaustion, and tenderness all braided together.

But like every season of motherhood, it does eventually shift.

And right now, I think I’m standing in that slow, uncertain space between holding on…

and letting go.