This is the third installment of a series on grief. If you haven’t read the first two posts on denial and anger, I recommend doing so, as they may provide more context for this one. This post goes onto the third stage of grief: bargaining.

I remember sitting on the couch one day, holding my son close, staring at the pump on the side table. I didn’t want to use it. I didn’t want to go through the motions again only to be disappointed. But what if this time was different? What if my body just needed one more push? What if I was just “giving up” too soon?

Bargaining is tricky. It deals with the “what if’s” and “if only’s” in grief. It’s another way to try and control what is uncontrollable. It’s reliving moments in our mind to come up with different alternative outcomes that may have been. Distorting what reality is with the hope that if the circumstances were different, then everything else would be different now. 

I remember this specific stage being connected a lot to denial in my journey. A constant thought I had was that if I just tried harder, I could produce more milk. Cue the pumping, the supplements, herbal remedies, and lactation-supporting diets. I power-pumped for weeks to try and increase my supply. I tried every recommended lactation-boosting supplement. I have literally tried it all. I read every piece of advice, good and bad, on how to increase my milk supply. None of it was effective.

The cycle of trying and failing took a toll on my mental health. Every time I attempted to nurse my baby or pump, I hoped for a miracle—that this time, my body would finally work the way it was ‘supposed’ to. Each failed attempt felt like proof of my inadequacy. I began dreading each feeding and pumping session because no matter how hard I tried, it never felt like enough. I questioned whether I was failing my son, whether I was failing as a mother altogether. The emotional weight was suffocating.

I wasn’t just grieving the milk I couldn’t produce—I was grieving the mother I thought I would be. The mother who wouldn’t have to count ounces. The mother who could nurse without thinking about supply. Every failed attempt reminded me that I couldn’t be her, no matter how hard I tried.

Another marker of this stage is comparison. I was constantly being fed breastfeeding content on social media, which led me to compare my experience to everyone else’s. It was disheartening. I constantly thought that if I had made different choices, my reality would have been different. “If only I had expressed my milk in pregnancy, maybe I would have been able to breastfeed.” “If only I had chosen to wait until labor had begun naturally, maybe I wouldn’t have Insufficient Glandular Tissue (IGT).” “If only someone had warned me, maybe I wouldn’t feel so blindsided.” “If only I had known… maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much.”

There isn’t really a way to prepare for the heart-wrenching reality that you have IGT. There isn’t really anything you can do about it either. It was a disheartening cycle of hope and disappointment. It was exhausting to try everything possible and only be disappointed in milk output. I felt guilty that I had done something wrong, and that’s why I had IGT. There was also guilt that I wasn’t a good enough mother for my son because of IGT. In my mind, being a good mother meant providing the best for my child, but I was physically limited in providing the best feeding option for my son.

One of the hardest but most important realizations I had was that IGT wasn’t something I could fix. I hadn’t caused it, and no amount of effort was going to change my body’s anatomy. My husband saw how much I was struggling and gently reminded me, “You’re not failing. You’re just working with different circumstances than other moms. You are a wonderful mom. The best I could have asked for our children.” That stuck with me. I had spent so much time blaming myself that I never considered the possibility that my worth wasn’t tied to how much milk I could produce.

When I finally began letting go of the idea that I could “fix” my body, I started focusing on what I could control. I embraced bottle-feeding as a bonding experience—I held my baby close, made eye contact, and talked to him softly while he ate. I reminded myself that nourishing him with love was just as important as nourishing him with food. Instead of spending hours on the internet researching lactation supplements, I spent that time snuggling him, singing to him, and enjoying the moments I did have.

If you’re in this stage, stuck in the “what ifs” and “if onlys,” I see you. I know how heavy this burden feels. But please hear me when I say this: you did not fail. You are not less of a mother because of IGT. Your ability to love, nurture, and care for your child is not measured in ounces. IGT may be out of your control, but the love you pour into your baby is within your control. And that is what truly matters.

Letting go of the illusion of control was freeing in some ways, but it also left me feeling empty. Once I had exhausted every possible “solution” and realized there was nothing left to try, the weight of reality settled in. With that reality came sadness—a deep, aching grief that I wasn’t sure how to move past.

It wasn’t until I laid my burdens at the feet of the Savior that I began to understand—acceptance isn’t giving up. It’s trusting that even in my weaknesses, He is strong. Healing is possible, even if it doesn’t come in the way I expected.

In surrendering control, I also made room for something else: healing. I didn’t know it then, but acceptance wasn’t about giving up—it was about making space to heal. That healing wouldn’t come easily, though. Before I could reach it, I had to walk through the deepest part of my sorrow: the weight of depression.

If you’re in this stage, stuck in the “what if’s” and “if only’s,” I see you. I know how heavy this burden feels. But please hear me when I say this: you did not fail. You are not less of a mother because of IGT. Your ability to love, nurture, and care for your child is not measured in ounces. IGT may be out of your control, but the love you pour into your baby is within your control. And that is what truly matters.