Tears and Breastmilk

Tears and breast milk. This morning I am covered in dried tears and breast milk. Salty tears and sweet milk. Both my own. Of my body.

For a moment everything feels impossible. When will I ever sleep again? Will his latch get better? Will my back keep hurting? There’s no end in sight. The tears stream from my sleepy eyes and fall to my naked nursing chest. Tears like those of a child who has been awake for too long and doesn’t even know why she’s crying.

I think of how the milk must empty from my breasts to make room for more milk. And so too must the tears flow from my heart and mind to make room for, yes, inevitably more tears, but also perhaps something else.

And so I let myself cry until it’s all come out. This ‘outpouring’ turns my hard, tender breasts to soft, doughy flesh once more. Kevan brings me coffee. The sun rises. I get in the shower. The hot water washes the milk and tears from my body, lifting my spirit until I am inspired and excited for the day.

Indeed, those expressed tears made room for something else.