‘Engorged With Milk and Aching For My Child’

When my daughter was born, breastfeeding felt like one thing my body did right. Not long after my unplanned C-section, I had to return to the hospital for surgery. In anticipation of my stay in the hospital — which would last up to seven days — I began to pump directly after breastfeeding; I deliberately ignored my surgeon who dismissed my primal desire to nurse as irrelevant. This increased my milk production so dramatically that by the time the surgery day arrived, our home freezer was full of breastmilk. The first thing I was aware of when I awoke from the anesthesia was my breasts, engorged with milk and aching for my child. 

Like many Americans, I saw parenthood as a matter of personal and private responsibility. In the blurry survival mode of early motherhood, I didn’t think about the absence of paid family leave. I accepted the fact that in order for my body to maintain the ability to produce breast milk for my daughter, I would have to pump when away from her, when she would normally nurse.

Once I was back to my teaching job, I’d have to rush, during lunch breaks, from my third-floor classroom, across the street to another building where the school's government-mandated lactation room was located. I’d grab the oversized key to the lactation room, which the guards often struggled to locate, and let myself in. The room was surprisingly large, with conspicuously barren bookshelves, lots of extra chairs, and fake trees. Using a hands-free pumping bra, I simultaneously pumped milk and ate lunch while contentedly video chatting with my mother who was watching my daughter in Brooklyn. 

One day, I lugged my camera, tripod, and breast pump with me to work and photographed this curious room of which I had grown fond. And that was how my work on “Milk Factory” was born.

My goal with “Milk Factory” was to create an unconventional portrait of motherhood in the form of a series of photographs (some of which we’re sharing here), a short film, and my book. I knew from the start that I wanted to remove the mother and child from the images, and to photograph post-pump. 

Throughout the history of art, breastfeeding appears as a symbol of maternal love in paintings, mostly made by men. Pumping seems a more accurate reflection of what being a parent looks like in a late-capitalist society that values productivity over health and human attachment. Symbolically and materially, expressed milk simulates physical and emotional intimacy when mother and child are separated.

Of course, historically, a wet nurse would provide human milk when parents couldn’t or chose not to. There was often a class and racial component to it, with wet-nursing performed by slaves or servants who were often unable to care for their own children. The breast pump was invented in 1854; and the first U.S. milk banks emerged in the 1910s to distribute milk to premature or sick babies if mothers’ milk was unavailable or insufficient. 

In a 2009 New Yorker article, Jill Lepore describes pumping mothers as their own wet nurses. A woman’s choice of whether or not she chooses to feed her child breastmilk — and whether from her breast or a bottle, is hers alone.

My project doesn’t uphold how or what one should feed their child, there is already enough judgement of mothers and not enough support. I was interested in drawing attention to the mothers’ needs and desires, a vital perspective often missing in the narrative. Finding subjects to photograph, and the process of making and sharing these images, were as significant to me as the final pictures. 

While many of the women I met and interviewed disliked being connected to a machine (and some absolutely loathed it), they accepted pumping as something that had to be done to maintain breastfeeding, which is often characterized as pleasurable. 

The overwhelming majority of mothers were proud of feeding their child despite complicated logistics in offices where “you’re supposed to pretend that you don’t have a family” and what was characterized to me by a freelancer as, “one of the most lonely and awkward experiences I’ve had in the work environment.”

Pumping mothers are often advised to look at images of their babies or breathe in their scent with clothing to stimulate what is known as let-down. In my photographs, images of babies appear in prints and on cell phone screens, a nod to the power of photography and to the constraints on intimacy in society.

There were harrowing stories, such as a former police officer forced to pump in a locker room and dirty bathroom; who developed postpartum depression after being denied pumping breaks. 

Some women shared positive stories, like a curator who discovered that using a manual breast pump “gave me a closer relationship with my own body than I have ever had.”

“I felt in tune with my body in a way I’d longed for forever, doing something that I’d been told would be too hard, too sore, too time-consuming.”

A lawyer told me, “It feels like being in a lab, but doing something that is so beautiful and sacred with lab equipment. I’m so grateful and satisfied that I can produce milk and feed my baby. It's such a unique proposition to have something of value that you can extract from your body.”

Each pumping experience was singular, but taken together, the solitary experiences take on collective power, the potential for community, and perhaps a new politics. 

What follows is a selection of oral histories with photos from "Milk Factory." The quotes were condensed and lightly edited for clarity.

Dairy Farmer

This image was taken on a Spring day with a third-generation dairy farmer who was also a new mother. Before taking the photograph, I watched an electric milking machine extract milk from a cow. Breastfeeding and pumping remind us that we are mammals — there’s power to being linked with other animals in that way. Here is what she told me:

“Absolutely everything about becoming a parent has reminded me of cows. It’s so humbling. In motherhood and birthing, you’re connected to a whole lineage of humans, as well as animals…I’ve always thought that being female bodied meant that I had a different understanding of the animal’s experience. There’s no doubt that giving birth and lactating have only increased that compassion and understanding. I’m sure it will change the way I farm. 

“Actually, our method, raising the calves on their moms, is really rare. Friends of ours dubbed it the Madre Method. The woman who started it around here, she has five kids. After her first kid was born, she was like, ‘What? I'm not taking the calves away anymore.’ She changed the way that she farmed entirely because of her experience. It grows the best calf, they’re healthier, they look happy, they get really fat, and they don't have problems.”

Milk Donor

It felt important to expand the conversation around lactation to include other fundamental aspects of motherhood, including loss, as well as the gift-giving economy that surrounds milk itself. Milk banks, which provide donor milk to premature or sick infants when a mother’s own milk is unavailable or insufficient, often have bereavement donation programs. One mother, who miscarried at 16 weeks, shared her thoughts with me: 

“It feels like Julia didn't die in vain. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to produce milk or be able to share that with others and help them and their babies. Pumping brought me some comfort because it felt like I was sharing my love for Julia with others in need. Other days, pumping was difficult because it was a reminder of the loss that we had, and that my body is functional with some components of motherhood, but not the important ones. It felt like having to confront this betrayal of my body. I tried to focus on the positive and followed the milk bank on social media to see how they are helping.”

College Professor

I accompanied a close friend on her bus commute from New York City to Philadelphia, where I documented her experience pumping breast milk between classes. Here was her story:

“I had a 15-minute break, and I would literally run from my building four buildings over to pump. I remember carrying all of the equipment, and not having nearly enough time to expel all my milk and get back to class. I was teaching six hours straight typically. I continued to do that for quite some time, and it was chaos and dysfunction. 

“The room was appealing and comfortable, especially compared to all of the other lactation rooms at my university, but because of the minimal time I had, I always felt rushed and anxious. I wasn't able to pump enough during the day, and I didn't feel comfortable pumping on the bus I took to commute, so I would get clogged ducts. Despite all of that, I still felt bad about myself because I didn’t continue to breastfeed longer. There's this constant scrutiny and judgment when it comes to motherhood, and breastfeeding is really where it begins. I was giving all of my sustenance to my child, which is of course so critical to their needs, but at the same time, there has to be a balance, right? We need to find a balance and make sure that we are OK. I needed to regain my strength.” 

Incarcerated Parent

“The Serene Expressions” room at Julia Tutwiler Prison for Women was established through the Alabama Prison Birth Project (APBP), a nonprofit that provides doula support to pregnant inmates. Previously a solitary confinement cell, incarcerated women repainted the room in pastels and created artwork for the walls. Local community members, churches, prison nurses, and breast pump companies all helped to furnish the space. The pumped milk is delivered or shipped by APBP to the moms’ babies on the outside once a week. The majority of moms who give birth at Tutwiler choose to be a part of this pumping program.  

Chantal Norris, a doula and the co-director of the project, talked to me about the incarcerated women she supports: 

“I always emphasize the fact that only you can provide breast milk for your baby, which helps save costs at home, and it's going to help keep you bonded to your baby. I don't even have to go through the benefits for moms, they're like, ‘If it can help my baby, sign me up.’ Every time they’re pumping, they’re thinking about their baby. I always encourage them to take photos from their birth and the baby's hat that smells like the baby to the pumping room, so they're able to mentally stay connected and bonded. 

“Prior to our program, they would dissociate a lot, like, I'm going through this experience, I just have to get through it, I can't think about anything else. A lot of those maternal bonds have been interrupted, and it's hard to bond once they get back into their community. Even though these birthing parents are incarcerated, they are still doing their best to be good moms. Their mistakes don't have to define them. We know that there are good things that breast milk provides, but if nothing else, it also provides some hope.”

Legal Scholar

I rode the train from Grand Central Terminal to New England with a legal scholar who began publicly pumping on her commute out of necessity and as a form of political action intended to normalize pumping. I loved photographing breast milk in transit, especially in the custom glass bottles she used, because she couldn’t imagine storing her breast milk in plastic. She told me: 

“I set up my pump conspicuously, slip on my pumping bra, and pump away, all while reading or writing on my phone or laptop as if I were doing the most natural thing in the world … When they comment, fellow commuters usually say supportive things like, ‘You gotta do what you gotta do,’ or, ‘Wow, you are fast!’ But more than once, an employee has told me, ‘There’s a bathroom there if you want.’”

Bartender

A bartender learned about my project through a Brooklyn moms’ group and reached out, hoping to shed light on a situation she described as “almost taboo in the bar world.” Here is her story: 

“This is where I pump. It’s a disabled bathroom, it’s a coat closet, it’s our spare room. It’s the only place that’s not on camera, and where I have a bit of privacy. This is the best scenario. I’ve been bartending for almost six years. I’ll be with these people almost all day long at the bar and when I have to take a break to pump they will be like, “Where are you going to go?” And if they have been drinking it will be worse. I had a group of guys who asked me, “Why are you going to put make-up on?” 

"I only work days and it’s just me. I don’t get a break for lunch. I’m on my feet for 12 hours at a time. I pump for 15 minutes and then I immediately put my milk into freezer bags. Thankfully, my milk supply is big enough as I’m only able to pump once a day. I’ve talked to some women who pump multiple times a day, I wouldn’t be able to do that here."

Business Consultant

I happened to see this mom carrying her milk filled breastpumps across a co-working space, and so of course I approached her about being in the project. Here is what she told me:

“In my field, you often have to present as more masculine, like I’m here ready to do business and make a big impact. Coming in and having to admit that you’re also doing this pumping work is really vulnerable. I’ve always had this fear that it makes me look unprofessional and somehow weaker and less prepared than my six-foot-four male counterparts.

 "You’re tethered to a machine; you’re tethered to this clunky plastic. On the flip side, it does give you autonomy, it allows you to go to work and leave your kid, and I do appreciate it for that. I was talking to my mom, who was in the former Soviet Union when she had me, and they didn’t have machine pumps. Everyone breastfed, and there wasn’t much access to formula. They used manual pumps or their hands. Granted, they had a year of paid maternity leave, so pumping wasn’t as necessary. That’s why pumping is so necessary here; it’s a very American phenomenon.”

Nurse

One nurse I interviewed couldn’t get approval for me to photograph her at her workplace, so we met before a half marathon she was running postpartum. Running a marathon after her first child, she “cut the nipple holes out of [her] sports bra and wore a pumping bra over the top.” She said, “I think they had a lactation tent that I could have used, but the logistics of getting to it felt so insurmountable that it wasn’t worth it, so I just walked down the streets of Coney Island and pumped.” She works as a nurse on a death and dying cancer floor, and she told me:

“That element of the duality of my life is there — I could have just walked from a patient’s death, and I need to pump. I know I have my rights to go and pump, but I’m leaving humans hanging, both my coworkers and my patients, when I choose to step away. There are times at work where I’m really glad that I get to go, turn on a white noise machine and a lamp, and put my feet up and pump. That’s a reprieve. I’ve been a nurse for eight years, and it’s the single most lovely thing that’s happened in my nursing career.”

Lactation Consultant

I spent more than an hour talking to a lactation consultant in a Harlem coffee shop, after which she ducked into the bathroom to hand express her breastmilk into a coffee cup, which I then photographed. (Following the photo, she fed the breastmilk to a plant in the cafe.) She told me how she ditched the pump for her hands: 

“I hated pumping so much. I hated having a machine on my nipples, and I hated the sound of it. I hated everything about it. More than anything, I hated the feeling of scarcity that I felt it gave me — it's never enough, and I'm working so hard for it. I started hand expressing a bit after the pump session, and at first I got a few drops and then within a couple days I got a quarter ounce, and then it was a half-ounce. I was going on a yoga retreat with my friend and I forgot pump tubes at home, so I hand-expressed. I expressed 29 ounces in 24 hours. It was like pulling milk out of thin air. I was totally free. I can get my milk out whenever and wherever I want. I am a motherf*cking machine.”

These photos and words are from "Milk Factory" by Corinne May Botz. Reprinted with kind permission of the author and Saint Lucy Books.