MÈRE Stories: Lea Wallace
Like so many soon-to-be moms, I had all the right intentions—and absolutely no grasp on the reality I was walking into.
With a background in human development and nutrition, and a deep respect for the benefits of breastfeeding, I was confident this would be a natural part of my motherhood story.
I took the classes, read the books, joined the forums. On paper, I was ready.
But as Marvin Gaye so wisely said, “Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby.”
After hours of labor and three hours of pushing, Levi squirmed his way into the world and was placed on my chest.
He latched right away, and I thought, Well, that was easy enough.
But within days, I realized something wasn’t right.
He sucked, but never seemed full. I winced through every feed, pain shooting from my chest through my shoulders. My nipples cracked and bled. I cried through the days and nights.
The doctors diagnosed me with Raynaud’s Syndrome—offering nothing but a printout and a sympathetic shrug.
I felt broken.
Like I had already failed at something I was supposed to be made to do.
At one point, in the thick of it, my sister brought home her new boyfriend to meet the family. I stumbled into the living room—feverish, leaking milk and blood, holding my chest, and sobbing: “David, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m sorry I’m crying… my boobs just really, really hurt.” He smiled, offered to hold the baby, and let me nap and cry and recover. Six years later, he’s my brother-in-law—and that now laughable moment still bonds us.
At six weeks, I was ready to quit.
In a last-ditch effort, I booked an appointment with Mary Jo, the head of lactation at Piedmont Athens.
I walked into her office and instantly burst into tears.
She locked the door, took her phone off the hook, and sat with me for two hours.
She listened.
She watched me nurse.
She encouraged.
She told me she’d never seen someone nurse through Raynaud’s, but if I was willing to fight for it, she’d fight with me.
She suspected Levi had a tongue and lip tie, sent me to an ENT, gave me resources for the infections, and helped me feel like I wasn’t alone.
After his procedure and some healing, nursing became bearable. Then beautiful.
I went on to nurse Levi for 21 months. I even pumped extra milk to feed five NICU babies for months to follow. And every feeding—every 3am session, every sweaty car feed, every quiet moment tucked away with just the two of us—felt like grace.
I’m forever grateful for the people who stood beside me—professionals, family, friends—who reminded me I wasn’t failing. I was becoming.
So, if you’re reading this and the mountain ahead feels too high, I want you to know: this isn’t a story about muscling through pain just to “make it work.” This is a story about finding your people. About asking for help. About trying, learning, and doing the best you can.
Whether you nurse for five days, five months, or beyond—what matters is the love, not the length.
You are enough for that sweet new baby. And you’re not alone. Many moms have gone before you and we are cheering you on, always.
— Lea Wallace
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