By Shatrell P.

Editor’s note: Black Breastfeeding Week is celebrated every year from August 25-31. This year’s theme fits perfectly with this piece: We All We Got: 14 Years of Community, Care, and Collective Power. You can learn more about Black Breastfeeding Week here and on their Facebook page.

I am a mother of five.

And for me, breastfeeding was not just a choice—it became a journey of reclaiming something that was always meant to be ours.

I am the first in my lineage, at least in recent generations, to breastfeed all of my children, each one until the age of two. That is something I carry with deep pride, but also deep awareness. Because, while breastfeeding is natural, it was not normalized in my environment. It was not something I grew up seeing, celebrating, or being guided through. It was something I had to learn, unlearn, and fight to sustain.

From the very beginning, I was met with resistance.

“Cover up.”

“That baby is too big to still be on you.”

“You’re doing too much.”

“Just give them a bottle.”

Those words didn’t come from strangers alone; they came from familiar spaces, from people who loved me, from a culture that has been disconnected from breastfeeding for generations. And that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

The stigma is real.

And it didn’t start with us.

As Black women, our relationship with breastfeeding is layered. It carries history. It carries pain. It carries stories that were never fully healed. Our ancestors were forced to nurse the children of enslavers, often at the expense of their own babies. Their bodies were not their own. Their milk was not honored. It was taken.

That kind of history does not just disappear. It lives in the body. It lives in the way our communities view breastfeeding. It lives in the discomfort, the lack of support, the silence, and sometimes even the shame.

So when a Black woman chooses to breastfeed today, she is doing more than feeding her child.

She is breaking cycles.

She is reclaiming autonomy.

She is healing something that began long before her.

For me, that healing happened one child at a time.

Each baby taught me something new. Patience. Surrender. Trust in my body. Trust in my intuition. There were hard days—latching struggles, exhaustion, moments where I questioned if I could keep going. But there was also a deep, unexplainable connection. A stillness. A knowing.

Breastfeeding became sacred to me.

It was in those quiet moments, holding my baby close, that I felt most aligne—not just as a mother, but as a woman walking in purpose. My body was doing exactly what it was designed to do. And that realization was powerful.

But I didn’t walk this journey blindly.

I am also a doula. A childbirth educator. A breastfeeding advocate.

And because of that, I see both sides.

I see the beauty. And I see the gaps.

I sit with mothers who want to breastfeed but don’t have the support.

I meet women who were never shown how.

I hear stories of pain, of discouragement, of being dismissed in clinical settings.

I witness how quickly breastfeeding can be undermined when a mother is not protected, informed, and supported.

Especially for Black women.

We are often expected to “just know,” while simultaneously being unsupported in learning. We are navigating systems that have historically failed us, while trying to make empowered choices for our families.

That’s why Black Breastfeeding Week matters.

It is not just about awareness. It is about restoration.

It is about reminding us that breastfeeding is not new to us.

It is not foreign.

It is not something we are trying to adopt.

It is something we are returning to.

I love seeing more women of color breastfeeding openly, confidently, and without apology. I love seeing representation shift. I love hearing more conversations about milk, nourishment, and generational healing.

Because every time a Black mother chooses to breastfeed—whether it’s for two days, two months, or two years—she is participating in something bigger than herself.

She is rewriting a narrative.

She is giving her child not just nutrients, but connection, immunity, comfort, and legacy.

And she is reminding the world that our bodies are powerful, capable, and worthy of being trusted.

My journey as a mother of five has taught me that breastfeeding is not about perfection. It’s not about meeting anyone else’s timeline or expectations. It’s about relationship. It’s about intention. It’s about doing what feels aligned for you and your child.

And it’s about having the right support.

That is why I do the work that I do.

As a birthworker, I don’t just show up for labor. I show up for the full journey. I educate. I advocate. I create space for mothers to ask questions without judgment. I remind them that they have options. I stand in the gap when systems fall short.

Because no mother should have to figure this out alone.

Especially not in a community that is already carrying so much.

To the mothers who are breastfeeding: keep going.

To the mothers who are trying: be gentle with yourself.

To the mothers who couldn’t or chose not to: your motherhood is still whole, still valid, still powerful.

There is no one way to mother.

But for those of us who are choosing to breastfeed, know this:

You are not just feeding your baby.

You are reclaiming your body.

You are honoring your ancestors.

You are shifting generations.

And you are returning to what was always yours.

Supporting Breastfeeding Families–Today, Tomorrow, Always

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