I vividly remember the first time I read about Insufficient Glandular Tissue (IGT). I was sitting on the toilet and sobbing. Sobbing because, for the first time, I had figured out what was “wrong” with me. Sobbing because I felt betrayed. For the previous eleven months, I had been a studious researcher. I read what I had thought was everything I would need to know about pregnancy, birth, and the postpartum periods.

I took multiple classes and followed influencers who work with pregnant and postpartum women. This unfortunate little event in my bathroom was the first I had read that having IGT was even a possibility. About a month prior a Lactation consultant had said I might have “hypoplastic breasts” but I had read that that isn’t necessarily a cause for low milk supply. No one wants to tell a pregnant woman that things may go wrong weeks after the baby is born. I could go on and on about my issues with the oversimplified nursing content that permeates social media. I felt like I had been babied. Amidst all the information, I had not once been led to believe struggling with breastfeeding was a possibility that could actually happen to me.

However, in all reality, my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother had supply issues producing milk. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that I, too, would struggle to provide breastmilk for my children. Because of the research I had done on pregnancy, I believed their issues were caused by breastfeeding mismanagement. Unfortunately, that appears not to have been the case. They, too, likely struggled with what we now call IGT. Though it may not have had a popular name when they struggled with their supplies.

Along with betrayal, I felt grief. Immense grief for the experience that I imagined and wanted. I had imagined that I would exclusively breastfeed my children. It was heartbreaking for me to have to change that plan. Another moment seared into my memory happened at less than a week postpartum. My infant was screaming in hunger. I had kept latching, only for him to nurse for a second before breaking the latch and crying. With tears in my eyes, I pulled out the emergency formula I got just in case my plans failed and made the first of many formula bottles. My son drank it so fast. I can’t imagine how hungry he had felt. After that, no matter how many appointments I had with lactation consultants, my son refused to nurse. So, I jumped into pumping.

Pumping may have been a mistake. If it was a good supply day, I could squeeze out maybe 6 ounces in a whole day. It was debilitating to see that every day; it was debilitating to compare it to most women who could get that amount in a single pumping session. I tried everything to increase my supply. I tried every supplement, herbal remedy, galactagogue, and recipe that boasted the ability to increase milk supply. I spent more money on pumps and pump parts than I like to think about trying to find the right combo to improve and maximize my supply. It was mentally and emotionally draining to rigorously hook myself up to the pump for 20 minutes every couple of hours, only to get mere drops of milk. My pumping journey and learning of IGT came together in a ball full of grief for what would never be my story. But a story I longed for and imagined my whole life.

In future blog posts, I aim to go into all the little details of my story and experiences. But for today, I have decided to focus first on my experiences with grief. I like to think of grief through the Kübler-Ross model, where researchers outline the grief experience in five stages.

The first stage was denial. I remember reading about IGT for the first time and knowing this was the cause of my production failure. But I didn’t accept it. It felt unreal, like some kind of mistake. I hadn’t prepared for this. I couldn’t have IGT. No one talks about it, so surely it must be rare, right? How could this be happening to me when I had done everything “right”? How could this have been my reality?

Denial is powerful. It’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from a truth it isn’t ready to face. It makes us push away what doesn’t fit into the story we’ve envisioned for ourselves. For me, it was not just about the diagnosis but also about the life I had imagined—one filled with easy, pain-free nursing. I was forced to accept that my reality didn’t match that picture, and I couldn’t make peace with it for a while.

Denial isn’t just a refusal to accept a diagnosis; it’s also a refusal to accept that things can be different than what we’ve dreamed. It’s hoping, praying, and wishing that if we just try a little harder or change just a little more, things will return to the way we expected. The protective shield makes us feel like we can hold on to the hope of a different future.

For any woman reading this who has felt this same grief—who has sat in denial, hoping, praying, and wishing for a different reality—I see you. Your pain is valid, and your love is not measured in ounces. We deserve a space to mourn, process, and find a path forward. Denial may have been my first response to this situation. However, it was never meant to be the final destination.

In the posts to come, I’ll share the anger, the bargaining, the heartbreak, and ultimately, the acceptance that followed. Because while this isn’t the story I had dreamed of, it is still my story. It deserves to be told if only to help one person feel like they’re not alone on this journey. For anyone feeling the weight of unexpected grief, I hope you know that you are not alone.

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart (Psalm 34:18).

He is there, even when the path looks different than hoped.

*The events in this series may not follow the exact order of the Kübler-Ross model, as grief is a unique journey for everyone. However, for clarity, I will share specific experiences that illustrate each stage in the model’s order.