Becoming a first-time mom was nothing like I imagined. After giving birth and settling into recovery, my husband, my mom, and I were starving. My mom brought us In-N-Out, and we scarfed it down like it was a five-star meal. Once she left, my husband and I looked at our tiny, sleeping baby and asked, “Now what? Do we just… watch him?” We laughed, completely clueless, and decided to try getting some rest. He was out the moment his head hit the pillow.

An hour later, the baby woke. Exhausted, sore, and still in pain, I pulled the bassinet close and tried to breastfeed. I had promised myself I’d do it for his first year, but it took over twenty minutes of failed attempts before I finally caved and called the nurse for help. After more adjusting and guidance, he latched, ate for maybe fifteen minutes, got burped, and went back to sleep. As I laid him in the bassinet, watching his tiny chest rise and fall, it hit me—this was only the beginning.

That feeling of elation from his birth faded quickly. In its place came waves of helplessness and self-doubt. Every time he woke, feeding was a struggle. No matter how many techniques I tried—the ones I’d been shown by nurses and lactation specialists—he just wouldn’t latch. The day and a half we spent in the hospital were filled with tears and frustration. I told myself it would be easier at home. But it wasn’t. Every feeding left me defeated. My milk hadn’t fully come in, and pumping barely produced an ounce. By the second morning home, I hit a breaking point. I asked my husband to buy water so we could mix formula. I was miserable, frustrated, and heartbroken—but my baby was hungry.

Two days after being discharged, my milk finally came in, but my baby still refused the breast. And so, my pumping journey began. To keep my supply steady, I was told to pump every two hours, including in the middle of the night—prime time for milk production. Those early days felt like an endless loop of pumping, cleaning, feeding, and praying for rest. The steady hum of the pump became the soundtrack of those long, lonely nights.

Those first two weeks were only bearable because my husband was on leave. He helped with the nighttime routines so I could heal, but by the third week, exhaustion caught up with both of us. He was burnt out, and I was sleeping so lightly that the baby’s slightest whimper had me wide awake. Some nights, it felt like I had just shut my eyes when the crying started again. Most nights, I was the one getting up, and sometimes I would glare at my sleeping husband and feel pure, irrational rage. I’d imagine smacking him with a pillow just so he’d share my suffering. In the morning, I’d tell him about it, and we’d laugh. Somehow, in the light of day, it didn’t seem so bad.

A month after the baby was born, my husband went back to work, and we agreed I’d take all the night shifts from Sunday through Thursday. The first week passed in a fog of exhaustion. By the second week, he was so tired from work that on what was supposed to be my night off, he fell asleep the second his head touched the pillow. I stared at him, seething. I swear, I had never looked at anyone with such unfiltered rage. Sleep deprivation turns you into someone you barely recognize.

My saving grace through all of it was my sister-in-law. She had given birth just seven weeks before me, and we found comfort in our shared chaos. We’d text each other at all hours of the night—1:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., 5:00 a.m.—venting about the hormonal crashes and the endless feedings. We started making an effort to see each other more often so our boys could grow up close. Between diaper changes and bottles, we’d laugh about how crazy it was to love our partners so deeply yet feel absolute hatred toward them at times. As they say, there’s a fine line between love and hate—and motherhood proves that line is razor thin.

Two months in, our pediatrician told us that our baby had reached an ideal weight and we no longer needed to wake him up for nighttime feedings. I swear, God was looking out for me because soon after, he started sleeping through the night—going down between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m. and waking between 6:00 and 8:00 a.m. That first stretch of uninterrupted sleep felt like heaven. I woke up feeling alive again, like I could finally breathe.

But the stress of pumping didn’t stop. Every two to three hours, I was trapped in a routine—feed the baby, change him, wash bottles, clean all the tiny pump parts, and start all over again. Some days, I completely forgot to eat or shower. By the time I sat down, it was time to pump again. By the third month, I couldn’t do it anymore. After combo-feeding for those first months, I made the decision to switch entirely to formula. It wasn’t easy. The guilt weighed on me—but I knew it was the right choice. I realized I’d rather my baby have a happy, calm mom than a stressed-out one ready to pull her hair out.

For any moms trudging through those newborn trenches, I see you. You will get through it. It’s okay to love someone deeply and still feel angry, sad, or overwhelmed. You’ve just survived the greatest hormone crash a woman can experience while caring for a brand-new life. It’s brutally hard right now, but it does get easier. And when it feels impossible—talk about it. With another mom, a friend, your partner—anyone who’ll listen. The simple act of sharing what you’re feeling can lift some of the weight off your shoulders. You’re not alone in this, even when it feels like you are.