Plus, she said, there were some studies that indicated that breasts the size of mine might have trouble producing milk. Something to do with the glands, she said—but all I could hear were that my breasts had simply failed. After all this time, they still did me no good—and not much for my baby, either. I had tears streaming down my face the day my frozen milk wore out—the milk I painstakingly drew out every few hours, not with bottles like the other mothers but mere medicine droppers—and I saw them pour formula into my daughter’s feeding tube.

Even as I write this, I cry. I still feel like I failed my daughter, like my body betrayed me. Every time I see a mother breastfeeding, I actually struggle to refrain from sobbing in public. It simply confuses my husband, who just doesn’t seem to understand. I don’t understand, either. In my mind, I know I tried my best and it still didn’t work; but I’m constantly told from every source that I see that it should have worked, that I didn’t do my job, that my baby is left more susceptible to dozens of ailments because of my failure.

And I still feel like my breasts are pretty useless, though I know I should appreciate them as with the rest of my body. They have served me well when my daughter, now fully healthy, comes running to me and wants a hug—or falls asleep on them, something that her father claims to envy.

But I have to wonder how much I’d still hate them if I wasn’t told that “breastfeeding is best” by every passing professional; assured that I didn’t do “the right thing” by every magazine. I’ve done everything right that I can by my child, followed every piece of professional advice that I found sound; but when people talk about breastfeeding, my eyes start to water.

When I am forced to admit how I fed my daughter, I rush to say that we tried breastfeeding—and even then I feel the disapproval, the glares, the “better than you” stares.

What a bad mother I must be for not giving my daughter the milk nature intended for her, after all! And what if she’d been born to me before the advent of formula? Would she have died? When I ask this question, my friends assure me that a wet nurse or family member would have nursed her—and incubators didn’t exist back then either, after all, so why follow that line of thinking?

My mother didn’t breastfeed. I’ve talked to other mothers who didn’t make enough milk, either. There aren’t many, but the few I’ve talked to do not seem to be as broken up about it as I feel. Many of them are older than me and come from a generation where bottle feeding was considered fashionable rather than a failure.

When articles like this one are published, it would be nice to include some statistics or facts about women who simply can’t physically breastfeed—to acknowledge that it isn’t something to be ashamed of, maybe, as I simply can’t stop feeling ashamed about it myself, even after nearly five years. And while I think that every mother who can should try to breastfeed—to at least give it a whirl—I don’t think we should be condemned—by society or ourselves—for ultimately not being able to do it.