Forbidden Boob Power: the truth about feeding 10 babies

Before my triplets could latch, they needed to survive. They were too small, too fragile, born before they’d even developed the instinct to suck. They were born at six months gestation.

Louise Bourgeois

The Realities of Expressing

I started ‘expressing’ in the first hours after their emergency birth because it was all I could do. Manually at first, then hooked up to a machine that sounded like an ancient farm tool. I sat in the cold, clinical pumping room alongside other NICU mothers, all of us hollow-eyed with fear. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at each other.

It wasn’t just milk we were trying to produce - it was hope in liquid form. Every drop that fell into those doll-size bottles felt like a triumph.

The freezers told another story, though. Labeled milk bottles stacked high, some bearing the names of babies who hadn’t made it. Forgotten by grieving mothers, or perhaps left as a testament to love that didn’t get to grow. We didn’t talk about those bottles, but we all knew they were there. A silent reminder of what was at stake.

I labeled each bottle with my name, the date, and my babies’ name. In this case ‘Triplets’ was enough. The sight of those little bottles piling up in the freezer was my proof that I could do something. Even when I couldn’t hold them, couldn’t touch them, couldn’t stop the nurses from preparing me for the worst.

And before my supply was there other mothers stepped in. Their donated breast milk kept my babies alive until I could do it myself. I’d been a milk donor myself before, but I’d never been on the receiving end. To the women whose generosity fed my children: thank you. I don’t know who you all are, but I’ll never forget what you did.

What IF?

One day a little later, I noticed the youngest triplet making a tiny sucking motion with his mouth—a reflex he wasn’t even supposed to have. It was barely there, but it was enough to spark the thought: What if?

I asked the matron if I could try something wild. “He’s too fragile,” she said. “This is impossible.” But I wasn’t asking for permission. I was declaring my plan.

Let’s be real. My mum-of-seven clout carried weight. it wasn’t just experience, it was authority, and the matron knew it.

Carefully, the team helped insert his tiny, frail body into my chest, arranging wires and tubes with meticulous care. He was no bigger than my hand, a translucent scrap of life balanced precariously between hope and heartbreak.

I popped my nipple near his mouth, an invitation wrapped in disobedience.

We sat like that for ten minutes. Nothing. And then, the faintest flicker. The barest attempt to latch. It was the kind of moment so fragile, so small, it felt like the universe holding its breath.

And then we tried again. And again.

Three babies, countless attempts. Each time, I held them against my chest, threading tubes and wires with surgeon-like precision. Each time, they tried.

Their tiny mouths learned to latch in the face of every medical odd stacked against them. And as they grew stronger, my resolve grew with them.

Defiance in Every Drop

Breastfeeding my triplets wasn’t just about keeping them alive—it was about reclaiming my autonomy in a world that constantly tries to shrink it. It was about standing in defiance of every well-meaning expert, every logistical impossibility, and even my own doubts.

Three mouths. Two breasts. One woman.

I didn’t know if I could sustain it, but I wasn’t about to stop trying.

Breastfeeding: it’s a giant trigger topic among women.

It gets worn like a swinging medallion of feminist pride: I grew this baby, I fed this baby—hear me roar-latch. And yet, despite knowing all that, I share my story from a different stance.

I didn’t breastfeed to join a club or spite anyone. I didn’t do it to prove a point. I breastfed because I wanted to and because I was lucky to be able to.

Seven Singletons, One Boot Camp

Before I even attempted the logistical circus of breastfeeding triplets, I’d already breastfed seven singletons. Seven mouths. Seven latches. Seven unique journeys. It was boot camp for what came next.

I’ve endured mastitis more times than a new lover has stroked my clitoris to joy. Cue fevers and cabbage leaves in my bra.

Breastfeeding brought everything from the sensual pleasure that rivals fleeting sexual ecstasy to the kind of crazy-making despair that makes you want to walk out the door and never come back.

It is a full spectrum experience: boring, elating, agonising, euphoric. It’s cracked nipples and contracted uteruses. It’s elation at a baby’s weight gain paired with the dread of one more feed.

Obnoxious Motherhood??

But here’s something: there are few (if any) places where I’ve ever been able to celebrate my pride in breastfeeding seven (and later, ten) children. Why? I’m too busy protecting your feelings.

The narrative of motherhood tells us to downplay, soften, and insert caveats. It should go like this:

•“What if these breasts are not good enough?” and for me,

•“Who am I to tell you about my breastfeeding tales? You’ll hate me. then I’ll hate me.”

Yeah, but no. Enough with this. Book a session with a therapist if you need to unpack your feelings about it, because I’m done hiding my breastfeeding journey.

I’m done hiding what it’s taken to become the woman I am today—with every cracked nipple, sleepless night, and defiant choice. If this makes people uncomfortable, then maybe they simply need to be, right?!

And before you go, I’ll leave you with this:

Have you ever been told something you wanted to do was ‘impossible’? What did you do next?

Love,
Danusia x