Lily turned two a little while back. We had a party in the backyard—nothing fancy, just some balloons and a cake she mostly smeared on her face and a handful of toddlers running around while the adults stood around eating cheese and pretending to have conversations while actually just watching our kids not fall off things. Mochi hid under the bed for the entire duration. Bean, surprisingly, made an appearance and allowed exactly one child to pet her before retreating to higher ground. At one point I looked across the yard at Lily, who was attempting to feed a strawberry to a very confused-looking toddler from her daycare, and I thought: we made it. A whole year of formula. A whole year of bottles and mixing and middle-of-the-night feeds and anxiety about ounces. And now she's eating strawberries and cake and occasionally a fistful of dirt, and the formula days feel like they happened to someone else.
But they didn't happen to someone else. They happened to me. They happened to the version of me who sat on the kitchen floor at 2 AM crying over an empty can. The version of me who stood in the formula aisle at Fred Meyer doing desperate math about how many cans we could afford. The version of me who googled "baby rash milk allergy" at dawn and convinced myself I was a terrible mother because I couldn't diagnose my own daughter's textbook symptoms. The version of me who tracked every ounce, every feed, every wet diaper, because the data was the only thing that made me feel like I had any control over anything.
That version of me didn't know a lot of things. She didn't know that Lily would outgrow the milk protein allergy and transition to regular formula and then to whole milk and then to solids. She didn't know that the sleep would eventually come back, that the night feeds would taper off one by one until suddenly she was sleeping through the night and I was the one waking up at 2 AM out of habit, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do with myself. She didn't know that the shame about formula feeding would fade—not all at once, but gradually, the way the Oregon rain eventually gives way to those impossibly perfect summer days that make you forget what February felt like.
If I could go back and tell her things—that Emily from a year back, the one with the dark circles and the formula-stained yoga pants and the constant low-level hum of anxiety—here's what I'd say.
The shame is lying to you. I know it feels real. I know it feels like everyone is judging you. The woman in the grocery store, the lactation consultant, the mommy blogger with the perfect breastfeeding selfie. But the shame is not telling you the truth. The truth is that you're feeding your baby. The truth is that formula is not failure. The truth is that the shame is borrowed—absorbed from a culture that's decided breast is best and everything else is a consolation prize. You don't have to carry that. You can set it down. It'll take a while to figure out how, and you'll probably pick it back up again without noticing, but you can keep setting it down. Eventually it'll stay down.
The math will drive you crazy if you let it. Ounces per day, scoops per can, dollars per month. I'm not saying don't track—you know me, I tracked everything, I still have the notebooks—but I'm saying don't let the numbers become the only thing. Your baby is not a math problem. She's a person who will sometimes eat more and sometimes eat less and sometimes refuse a bottle entirely for reasons known only to her and the universe. The numbers are a tool. They're not a test. You're not being graded.
The pediatrician is your ally, not your judge. I spent so many appointments bracing for criticism, convinced Dr. Okonkwo was going to tell me I was doing everything wrong. She never did. She was always on my side. She was always on Lily's side. If you have a pediatrician who makes you feel judged or dismissed, find a different one. Good pediatricians exist. They're worth the search.
The formula you choose matters less than you think. I know. I KNOW. You're standing in the aisle comparing ingredients and reading reviews and trying to figure out which one is the best. But the difference between one formula and another—assuming your baby tolerates them both—is tiny. The best formula is the one your baby drinks, that you can afford, that you can prepare correctly at 2 AM when you're so tired you can barely see straight. Everything else is marketing.
The support you need might not come from where you expect it. I thought I needed a lactation consultant. What I actually needed was a mom group. I thought I needed expert advice. What I actually needed was someone to sit with me at 2 AM and say "me too." The Portland Formula & Mixed Feeding Moms saved my sanity not because they had all the answers but because they had all the questions. Find your people. They're out there. They're probably in a coffee shop somewhere, looking as tired as you feel, waiting for someone to start the conversation.
I want to tell you about a moment that happened maybe a while back. I was at the coffee shop on Hawthorne—the same one where the mom group meets—and a woman came in with a newborn. She had that look. The one I know now, the one I used to see in my own reflection. The thousand-yard stare of someone who hasn't slept more than a couple hours straight in weeks. The particular posture of someone who's holding it together by sheer force of will. She was trying to mix a bottle, fumbling with the formula dispenser, and she dropped the scoop on the floor. Twice. The second time she just stood there staring at it like she might cry.
I walked over. I picked up the scoop. I said, "Can I help?" And she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if she's eating enough. I don't know if I'm mixing it right. I don't know anything."
I sat down with her. I showed her how to level the scoop—not packed, not heaping, just level. I told her about the time Mark used a tablespoon for three weeks. I told her about the milk protein allergy and the empty can and the 2 AM kitchen floor. I told her that it gets better. Not all at once, not linearly, but eventually. The sleep comes back. The confidence comes back. The baby starts eating solids and you realize you haven't mixed a bottle in a few days and you didn't even notice the transition.
She asked me if I was a doctor. I said no, I'm a dietitian, but mostly I'm just a mom who's been where you are. She asked if formula was really okay—if her baby would be okay. I said yes. I said it with more conviction than I've ever said anything. Your baby will be okay. You will be okay. This part is hard but it's not forever.
She thanked me. I went back to my coffee. And then I sat there for a long time, thinking about the Emily from a year back. The one who needed someone to pick up the formula scoop for her. The one who needed someone to say "me too." The one who couldn't see that she was already doing it—that she was showing up, feed after feed, night after night, loving her baby in the only way that mattered: by feeding her, by holding her, by being there.
There are things I'd do differently if I could go back. I'd start the mom group sooner. I'd forgive myself faster. I'd throw away the lactation propaganda and stop reading the comments sections on parenting forums. I'd spend less time worrying about ounces and more time just... looking at my baby. The way her hand curled around my finger while she drank. The way her eyes would flutter closed when she was full. The way she'd sigh, that tiny contented sigh, when the bottle was gone and her belly was full and she was warm and safe and loved.
But I can't go back. None of us can. All we can do is be the person we needed for someone else. Be the mom in the coffee shop who picks up the formula scoop. Be the friend who says "me too" at 2 AM. Be the voice in someone's head that says: you're doing great, you're not failing, this is just hard.
Lily is two. She eats strawberries and dirt and the occasional vegetable. She sleeps through the night. She's learning words faster than I can keep track of them. Yesterday she said "more cheese please" and I almost cried, not because it was particularly emotional but because she's a PERSON now, a little person with opinions and preferences and a surprisingly strong stance on cheese. The formula days are behind us. The kitchen floor crying and the empty cans and the 2 AM anxiety spirals—all behind us. But they shaped me. They shaped who I am as a mother, as a dietitian, as a person who writes about formula on the internet in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will read this and feel less alone.
If you're in the middle of it right now—if you're mixing bottles at midnight and googling "is my baby eating enough" and feeling like everyone else has it figured out except you—I want you to know that you're not alone. You're not failing. You're not doing it wrong. You're just in the thick of it, and the thick of it is thick. But it doesn't last forever. One day you'll be sitting in a coffee shop, watching a new mom fumble with a formula scoop, and you'll realize you're not her anymore. You'll realize you made it through. You'll realize you can help someone else make it through too.
A year ago I was crying over an empty can. Today Lily asked for more cheese. We made it. You will too.
— Emily Hartwell
