Her name was Carly.

I don’t remember her last name. I don’t even know if she still works in labor and delivery. She worked at Virtua when I had my second baby — and if she ever somehow reads this, I need her to know that she changed everything for me. Times a million.

The reason she’s so front of mind right now is because a friend recently reached out, worried about her girlfriend who just had a baby. This woman has wanted to be a mom for years. Forever. And now that her baby is finally here, her mental state is getting rocked postpartum.

She’s exhausted. She’s committed to breastfeeding but struggling. She’s had to supplement a little, and even though she knows that’s okay, she feels defeated by it. Like she’s already failing at something she wanted so badly.

Talking to my friend — and talking directly with her girlfriend — brought me straight back to how I felt after my first baby was born.

And even though I now have three kids, that first postpartum experience is still burned into me.

We Prepare So Much for Birth — and Almost Not at All for After

With my first baby, there was so much emphasis on pregnancy and delivery. The appointments. The classes. The “what to expect.” The questions people ask you.

And then the baby came out of my body — and I had absolutely no idea what the fuck I was doing.

He was a COVID baby. We didn’t find out the gender, so I remember being so excited to FaceTime our family and tell them it was a boy. I was riding that adrenaline and joy… and I didn’t yet understand how quickly things could unravel.

I was so committed to breastfeeding. Deeply. Whole-heartedly.

And I still believe this: choosing to breastfeed is one of the most physically and mentally selfless things you can do for your child. Not just because of nutrition or antibodies — though those matter — but because of what it demands of a mother’s body and mind.

The hormone fluctuations.

The sleep deprivation.

The constant physical output.

The pressure to get it “right.”

No one really prepared me for that part.

Breastfeeding Felt Like an Uphill Battle I Was Losing

My milk hadn’t come in yet.

I had flat nipples and needed a nipple shield.

I wasn’t confident using it.

I didn’t understand latch mechanics — like how it’s the roof of the baby’s mouth that triggers sucking, whether breastfeeding or bottle-feeding.

I’d taken a lactation class before birth. I went to one after. And still, I felt completely lost.

In the hospital, I was trying everything.

At one point, I had a pump on one side, my baby on the other, and a lactation consultant put a bottle of formula inside my bra, ran a tiny tube from the bottle, taped it to my chest, threaded it under the nipple shield, and tried to have me feed him that way so he’d get “enough.”

I know the intention was good. I know she was trying to help.

But I cannot describe how stressed, overstimulated, and exhausted I felt in that moment.

Nothing felt natural.

Nothing felt intuitive.

I felt like my body was a problem to solve.

And I was just trying so hard to perfect something that already felt impossible.

I persevered. But when I look back, that time was dark — not because I didn’t love my baby, but because I felt completely unsupported in my own body.

And Then Came Carly

When I had my second baby, everything changed.

Before delivery, Carly asked permission before touching me.

“Would you mind if I helped spin you?”

“Can I massage here to help the baby descend?”

And I remember thinking: Oh my God, yes. Please. Help me.

She was calm. Confident. Grounded.

After my daughter was born, she looked at me and said,

“Would you like to breastfeed?”

I said yes.

She said,

“Would you like help?”

I said yes.

And then — without fanfare, without panic, without making it a thing — she took my baby, grabbed my breast, and helped her latch.

Immediately.

I swear to you, from that exact moment on, my entire breastfeeding experience was night and day.

Not because my body suddenly became different.

Not because I magically knew more.

But because someone believed I could do it — and showed me how — without shame or pressure.

The Difference Support Makes

Carly didn’t just help me breastfeed.

She helped me trust myself.

She made my body feel capable instead of broken.

She made the moment feel human instead of clinical.

She made me feel held, not evaluated.

And that difference — that single interaction — rippled through my entire postpartum experience.

Which is why my heart aches for moms who don’t get a Carly.

For moms who want this so badly and still struggle.

For moms who feel like supplementing means failing.

For moms who are exhausted, hormonal, overwhelmed, and quietly unraveling while telling everyone they’re “so grateful.”

You can want motherhood more than anything and still find postpartum brutally hard.

Both things can be true.

If You’re in It Right Now

If you’re reading this and you’re in that fog — the feeding confusion, the guilt, the exhaustion — I want you to hear this:

You are not weak.

You are not doing it wrong.

Your experience is not a reflection of your worth as a mother.

Sometimes what changes everything isn’t more information — it’s the right kind of support at the right moment.

And if you ever had a Carly — a nurse, a doctor, a friend, a stranger — who showed up for you when you needed it most, I hope you remember her too.

And if you are a Carly in someone else’s story?

Please know: you matter more than you will ever realize.