Pumping at 45 with Toddlers, Type 1 Diabetes—and a Whole Lot of Pride

A few years ago, I shared my story on the M.other Milk blog—how I learned to breastfeed without nursing, and how pumping became my way of feeding my baby. It wasn’t a dreamy ode to motherhood. It was raw, real, and rooted in the truth: sometimes feeding your baby doesn’t look like what anyone told you it should.

With baby number two, life hit hard. My father and mother-in-law were both diagnosed with cancer during that pregnancy, and my mother-in-law passed away just five weeks after Michael was born. She went into the hospital the day after his brit. In the middle of that emotional storm, I didn’t even try to pump. I didn’t have the space. I was tapped out—mentally, physically, emotionally. And it was okay. Michael was fed and loved and is a thriving toddler today. I made the right choice for that season. Still, a little guilt lingers.

Fast-forward to now: baby number three. I'm seven months into exclusively pumping—and I’m actually doing it.

And this time? It feels completely different.

For starters, the tools have changed. I’ve got a hospital-grade wall pump I love, and wearable pumps that literally let me pump while chasing toddlers, doing gan pickup, or making a snack plate. I didn’t have these with my last baby. Honestly, I don’t even think they existed. Today, I pop them into my bra, and boom—I’m mobile. I just have to remember not to lean forward or I’ll treat everyone to a milk shower. #LearningCurve

But it’s not just the gear.

I’m 45. I have type 1 diabetes. Each of those things, on their own, can make breastfeeding a challenge. Together? They make it feel nearly impossible. And yet—here I am, feeding my baby almost entirely on breast milk, with a full freezer stash as backup. A whole drawer of proof that my body is working. That I am working.

And honestly? That means everything.

There’s a quiet kind of pride in it. Not loud or performative. But personal. Fierce. Hard-won. I want to make it to a year. I never have before. But this time, I just might. For her. For me. Because now I know what it means to keep going—not perfectly, but with purpose. And that’s enough.