02/07/2026
I breastfeed with the weight of history on my chest and the softness of love in my arms.
For me, breastfeeding is not just feeding my baby. It is reclaiming something that was once taken, controlled, judged, and used against Black women.
My body has always been politicized. My motherhood questioned. My instincts doubted. My pain minimized. But when I breastfeed, I am not asking permission. I am choosing connection.
I think about the Black women before me who were forced to nurse other peoples babies while being separated from their own. Women whose bodies were seen as tools, not sacred. Women who had no choice.
So when I hold my child and nurse them freely, it feels like a quiet act of resistance. A healing moment. A reclaiming.
Breastfeeding is where I soften in a world that expects me to be strong at all times. It is where I rest. Where I am tender. Where I am fully human.
It is where my baby learns my heartbeat, my scent, my calm. Where I whisper love without words. Where I pass down comfort, safety, and belonging.
This is not about perfection. It is not about doing it right. It is about presence.
Breastfeeding reminds me that my body is capable, worthy, and wise. That my motherhood does not need to look like anyone else’s to be valid.
This is legacy. This is love. This is me choosing my child and myself 🤱
Black History Month is not just about what we survived. It is about how we continue to nurture life, in our own arms, on our own terms.
