As is the case for many women, breastfeeding in public was something I was nervous about initially. Still, I never had anyone make a fuss about me feeding any of my children until a few months ago, when I was approached by another mom after Mass. (You can read about it in part 1.)

When I shared my story online, I had supportive comments flood in from all over, and quite a few people brought up our Blessed Mother breastfeeding Jesus and some of the paintings depicting this. I wondered if the woman who approached me had ever seen a depiction of the Lactation of St. Bernard, or of Our Lady of la Leche.

Every time I talk about how breastfeeding mothers belong in Mass, and how they should be able to nurse however they feel comfortable, I get people in the comments telling me that breastfeeding without a cover is immodest.

These comments almost always start with, “I’m fully supportive of breastfeeding anywhere at any time, but…” and then they proceed to say why it’s wrong and shameful and sinful for women to breastfeed without a cover or in Mass or outside of the cry room. So, you don’t really support women breastfeeding anywhere at any time, do ya?

When I’ve brought up Our Lady breastfeeding Jesus and all of the art throughout Church history depicting her openly breastfeeding, I’ve received comments like: “You’re not the Virgin Mary,” “It’s not the same thing,” and “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m certainly not the Virgin Mary, but I believe this point matters quite a bit. If breastfeeding openly is inherently immodest, why would the Church display images of Our Lady in that manner?

An article by Aleteia, published in 2018, featured some of the oldest images of Mary, one of which was “Madonna of the Catacombs,” a third-century wall painting of Mary nursing our Lord.

There are far too many paintings like this to name, but some of my favorites are Holy Family by Adriaen van der Werff, Virgen de Belen by Marcellus Coffermans, and Madonna Nursing the Child by Erasmus Quellinus II. What do most of the paintings of Mary nursing have in common? In nearly every one, her breast is exposed (no nursing cover in sight).

It’s no secret that the way we view the human body and modesty has changed over time. During the 19th and 20th centuries, views on breastfeeding also changed, and it was during this period that breastfeeding rates declined significantly. The first infant formula was introduced in the late 1800s, but it wasn’t affordable for the general population at the time.

In the 1950s and 1960s, the formula market expanded, and this option became much more popular. According to “Breastfeeding Through the Centuries,” an academic paper published in 2018:

“After 1960, the birth rates started falling again. This time the reason was the contraceptive pill and the feminist movement. Breasts, which had had only functional connotations, gained esthetic and sexual roles. Feeding bottles were adopted as a symbol of women’s liberation.”

The rise of formula feeding contributed significantly to the view that breastfeeding was shameful and shouldn’t be done in public. In 1972, breastfeeding rates had dropped to an all-time-low.

It comes as no surprise to me that once again, the most radical Catholics on one end of the spectrum argue in the same way as those they claim to disagree with the most. While hyper-conservative Catholics make a woman’s body, specifically her breasts, out to be shameful — which discourages women from breastfeeding — some feminists also discouraged women from breastfeeding, holding the belief that the bottle was a sign of women’s liberation.

I truly do not know what most of these Catholics imagine women are doing while they are breastfeeding, even without a cover. Most breastfeeding mothers I’ve seen do their best to be discreet, but that’s still not enough for those who believe breastfeeding moms should leave Mass and go to the cry room “specifically designed for them,” as one man told me online.

Despite how often I advocate for a woman’s right to breastfeed in Mass, these comments are still hurtful and discouraging.

When I wonder if I’m simply shouting into the void or when I feel myself getting nervous about nursing my child in Church, I look to Our Lady as an example.

There’s a reason so many beautiful paintings of her nursing Jesus exist — and it’s because it is an image that brings comfort to the souls of many. It’s a reminder that we have a Heavenly Mother who loves us and who not only nourished our Lord, but continues to nourish all of us with her love and prayers.

While I have seen some Catholics cringe at the mention of the Lactation of St. Bernard, it stands as an example of how Catholics throughout history viewed breastfeeding and how far we have fallen from that view today.

If you visit the shrine of Our Lady of la Leche in St. Augustine, FL, you’ll find a statue of Mary nursing Jesus in the chapel. Throughout Church history, it was not considered scandalous for Our Lady to have her breast exposed in these images, and breastfeeding was seen as both a physical way for a woman to nourish her child and a symbol of spiritual nourishment.

I’ve never been a “drop the cover” type of mom. I know that some women feel uncomfortable breastfeeding in front of others, and considering the rate at which fear of public breastfeeding prevents women from nursing their babies, I would rather moms nurse how they feel comfortable.

But there is something incredibly beautiful about nursing your child in Mass. Every time a woman tells me that she nursed her child while going up to receive communion, it brings tears to my eyes.

What could be more symbolic than nourishing a child with our body while Jesus nourishes us with His body?

If you’ve ever felt unsure about breastfeeding your child in Mass, remember that you belong there. Even if you’re the only nursing mom present, think of all the mothers who have gone before you, including the Theotokos herself. Call on her, and she will pray for you, as any good mother would.

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If you’ve spent any amount of time online, it’s likely not news to you that there are groups of Catholics who are skeptical at best about the use of NFP.

I’ve had many discussions with these types of Catholics online in which they’ve told me NFP is no different from using contraception because the intent is the same: to prevent pregnancy. Since I frequently post about natural child spacing and avoiding pregnancy postpartum, it’s no surprise that it attracts this kind of individual.

Any time I suggest that it’s important for your body to heal after having a baby and that there’s nothing wrong with using natural child spacing or NFP to delay pregnancy after giving birth, these radical Catholics come creeping out of the woodwork, ready to announce that anyone who uses NFP is a big ol’ sinner.

The more reasonable ones will state that it’s okay in certain extreme circumstances, but they believe it’s overused. The more radical ones will suggest that it’s not okay in any circumstance, and that wives shouldn’t be denying their husbands sex. Or as one woman in my comment section recently stated, “If a husband asks his wife for intercourse during her fertile period, under pain of MORTAL SIN, she MUST oblige her husband.” Sigh. Regardless, their reasoning is typically the same — that the nature of NFP being used to avoid pregnancy makes it no different than contraception.

Recently, a video was circulating on Instagram with two Catholics on the progressive side of the aisle. In this video, these two individuals were making the same argument as the rad trad Catholics, saying that NFP is no different than birth control because the intent is the same: to avoid pregnancy. Except in this case, they were using this line of thinking to explain why birth control is actually licit. At least, that’s what was implied in the video.

Like most things, the truth about NFP is found somewhere in the middle of all the opinions out there, not in the extreme views on either side that cling desperately to the edge of Church teaching. But if you were a Catholic perusing social media, it would be difficult to know what is true based on some of the radical opinions out there.

Of course, the opinions of random people online don’t necessarily matter in the grand scheme of things, especially when it comes to Church teaching, and the Church in all of her wisdom does not teach that NFP is no different than contraception. On this topic, the Catechism states:

“Periodic continence, that is, the methods of birth regulation based on self-observation and the use of infertile periods, is in conformity with the objective criteria of morality. These methods respect the bodies of the spouses, encourage tenderness between them, and favor the education of an authentic freedom” (CCC 2370).

NFP can’t be the same as contraception for one very practical reason: having sex is not the same as not having sex. Contraception isn’t sinful simply because it causes you to avoid pregnancy. It’s sinful because it separates the unitive and procreative aspects of sex.

Although, according to the Catechism, it is our duty to make certain our desire to space children isn’t “motivated by selfishness” (CCC 2368), abstaining from sex does not break the “unitive significance and the procreative significance which are both inherent to the marriage act” (CCC 2366). If abstaining from sex during your fertile period was inherently sinful, then the logical conclusion is that it would be sinful to have sex any time you know you’re not fertile, not just outside of your fertile period, but also during pregnancy and after menopause. But the Church does not require you to abstain when you’re incapable of getting pregnant, because even if you are not likely to get pregnant during non-fertile periods, the marital act is still unitive, a mutual gift between spouses.

Although the teaching of being open to life is not an easy one to swallow, giving up birth control when I became Catholic wasn’t as difficult for me as it may have been for others. I’ve always felt a bit unsure about the use of birth control, even when I was a Protestant, and the Catholic teaching only affirmed what I felt inwardly but was unable to express all those years.

But it wasn’t until we ditched birth control entirely that I realized how different your marriage becomes without the use of contraceptives and how much love the use of NFP requires.

St. Teresa of Calcutta, while speaking at the National Prayer Breakfast in 1994, said this about NFP:

“I know that couples have to plan their family and for that there is natural family planning. The way to plan the family is natural family planning, not contraception. In destroying the power of giving life, through contraception, a husband or wife is doing something to self. This turns the attention to self and so it destroys the gifts of love in him or her. In loving, the husband and wife must turn the attention to each other as happens in natural family planning, and not to self, as happens in contraception. Once that living love is destroyed by contraception, abortion follows very easily.

I also know that there are great problems in the world — that many spouses do not love each other enough to practice natural family planning. We cannot solve all the problems in the world, but let us never bring in the worst problem of all, and that is to destroy love. And this is what happens when we tell people to practice contraception and abortion.”

When my husband and I were discussing this recently, what St. Teresa said about how many spouses don’t love each other enough to practice natural family planning really struck me. I’ve heard from both men and women online who believe NFP shouldn’t be used by Catholics. And when I think of those couples, in light of this quote, it breaks my heart.

St. Teresa of Calcutta was right — it requires a significant amount of love between spouses to be able to practice NFP — not because loving each other makes it easy, but because it requires both the husband and wife to make significant sacrifices for the sake of the other person.

When I see Catholics online, particularly men, express that it’s sinful to practice NFP or that it’s the responsibility of the wife to prevent her husband from sinning, I wonder how these individuals can justify blaming their spouses for their own struggles, as if their lack of self-control was a right instead of a flaw.

In response to some of the Catholic men we’ve encountered online, my husband suggested they look to St. Joseph. Our understanding of Mary’s perpetual virginity shows us that even though St. Joseph was a husband with desires just like any other man, he practiced self-control and loved his wife as perfectly as a human is capable of, never using her as an object to protect himself from sin.

According to the Church, sex between spouses is meant to be a “mutual gift.” Not just the woman giving herself to the man (as purity culture often teaches), but both spouses giving of themselves. And when abstinence is required because a couple has discerned a reason to avoid pregnancy, it means they have to find other ways to love and appreciate one another.

I understand why many Catholics begrudingly practice NFP or feel like they were sold a sugar-coated version of it. The truth is, I was never sold any version of it at all, since I came into the Church as someone who had already been married for a significant portion of time. I’ve only been using NFP for a short period compared to many other Catholic women, but I’ve realized that it isn’t easy, and also that it provides the opportunity for love to grow if we let it.

Rad trad Catholics who are opposed to the use of NFP may agree with St. Teresa of Calcutta that contraception destroys the gift of love between husband and wife. What they don’t realize is that refusing to abstain and practice self-control for the good of your spouse and your family can also destroy that love.

No matter your reason for using NFP, it always requires sacrifice, and sacrifice requires love. Next time you see someone express their judgment or discontent with couples who use NFP, say a prayer for them and their marriage. Pray their love for their spouse continues to grow. In the words of St. Gianna, “Love and sacrifice are closely linked, like the sun and the light. We cannot love without suffering, and we cannot suffer without love.”

Thank you for reading! In case you’re new here, I write for a living. If you enjoyed this post or want to support my work, feel free to Buy Me a Coffee. It actually feeds my family, but “Buy Me a Carton of Eggs” doesn’t have the same ring to it. You can also follow me on Instagram for more content. I appreciate your support!

Ten years before joining the Catholic Church was even a thought in my mind, I spent the weekend at a monastery for a writing retreat. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was Catholic. Writing was my passion, and despite my complicated relationship with my mother, when she mentioned the retreat, I jumped at the opportunity to spend a weekend away, lost in my thoughts and surrounded by God's creation.

The fact that it was a Catholic monastery was a minor, insignificant detail to me.

While we spent most of the weekend in various workshops and writing in solitude, we had some free time to explore the grounds as well. 

At some point during the weekend, we attended an early morning Mass, sitting in the back like tourists from a distant land. It was the first Mass I ever attended, at least the first I have any memory of. My mindset was that of an arrogant critic, desperate to point out every flaw before Mass even started.

As a Protestant, I scoffed at the sign gently reminding non-Catholics not to partake in Holy Communion. I sat silently in the back, listening to the monks chant in Latin, trying not to roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. How could someone experience God in a service where you couldn’t even hear what they were saying, let alone understand what the words meant?

I watched the faithful Catholics sit, stand, and kneel. Sit, stand, kneel. I wanted to dismiss it and allow the entire weekend to reaffirm what I already believed about God. And yet, something gnawed at me — something I couldn't quite put my finger on. 

I didn’t know that years later, after my husband and I finished RCIA, we would sit in awe during Mass, knowing that the beauty of tradition was something we had been missing our entire lives. I didn’t know how deeply, reverently, and sincerely I would come to appreciate many of the same traditions that the monks celebrated. I didn’t know then. But God did.

Now, 14 years later, I still remember how life-changing that weekend was. I remember being surprised by how real the monks were and how they cussed more than I did. Most of all, I remember how it was the most peaceful place I had ever been to. But at the time, I didn't consider why it was so peaceful.

When my husband and I went to our first Mass together years later, I felt that same peace.

As I look back at the breadcrumbs left throughout my life before my conversion, I see that God was leading the way the whole time, even during that brief weekend.

I saw Him in the quiet, peaceful moments in between writing sessions.

I saw Him in the monks as they shared genuine laughter with us, chatting about their former lives.

I saw Him in the conflicts with my mother, resolved only by His presence and assurance that He was all I needed.

And even though I didn't know it then, I saw Him at Mass, planting seeds of truth that would continue to grow for years to come.

I agreed to spend the weekend at a monastery for the sake of my writing, but I left with one more piece in the puzzle of my faith. One more step forward. 

Despite all the things I didn't know at the time and all the things I still had to learn, God never stopped leading me to the truth.

While I don't think I’ll be staying at a monastery again anytime soon (although I would certainly jump at the chance to have that experience again), I constantly ask myself, “What is God leading me to now?”

Every joy, trial, and even every insignificant moment is an opportunity to experience God and listen to what He is trying to teach us. While you certainly don't have to go to a monastery to experience God, it's not a bad idea to go somewhere where you can quiet your inner critic long enough to hear the truth.

In case you’re new here, I write for a living. If you enjoyed this post or want to support my work, feel free to Buy Me a Coffee. It actually feeds my family, but “Buy Me a Carton of Eggs” doesn’t have the same ring to it. You can also follow me on Instagram for more content. Thank you for being here!

In my early days of motherhood, I saw breastfeeding advocates shout online, “Drop the cover!” and while I appreciated their desire to normalize breastfeeding, I knew breastfeeding openly to make a statement was not for me. Still, my babies really didn’t want a cover over their head, and I had to find other ways to be discreet, from buying tops specifically designed for nursing mothers to layering with tank tops so that I could easily use the top shirt to shield myself from wandering eyes.

By the time I had my third baby, I was a lot less self-conscious about nursing in front of people, but still tried to be as discreet as possible. Thankfully, in nearly eight years of breastfeeding, no one seemed to notice or care when I fed my baby in public. At least, until several months ago, when I was approached by a woman after Mass.

It was just a regular Sunday. My husband and I decided to spend our morning at the traditional Latin Mass (TLM) parish near us. Like always, we tried to sit as close to the back as possible, choosing the second-to-last row. Nearly twenty minutes before Mass started, parishioners were already starting to fill most of the pews.

During Mass, I nursed my child like I always did, trying not to draw attention to myself, which became increasingly difficult as time went on and my child grew more impatient. My husband offered to take our middle child to the bathroom while I tried to keep our youngest content. Unsurprisingly, she wanted to nurse throughout most of the Mass, and her latching and unlatching happened nearly as repetitively and rhythmically as our sitting, kneeling, and standing.

I nursed as discreetly as I could, mostly in the carrier with the hood over her head, and at one point in my lap, trying to use my veil to cover myself. We made it out of Mass without any serious meltdowns and took the kids to run around outside with our much-deserved coffee and donuts in hand.

After standing outside for close to an hour, a woman I’ve never spoken to before approached me. I quickly realized she had been sitting behind us in Mass with her husband and young children.

The first words out of her mouth were about wanting to speak to me privately (even though she was within earshot of my husband and one of his close friends). Suddenly, everything felt as if it were moving in slow motion. The second I realized what she was about to say, I froze. Years of worrying about this exact scenario didn’t even remotely prepare me for it occurring in the one place I never expected.

The woman proceeded to tell me that while I was nursing in Mass, her husband saw my breast. She went on to say how that hurt her feelings, suggesting that I wear a cover because she always did. She drove her point home by saying, “This isn’t the place.”

I was certain everyone within a mile radius could hear my heart pounding in my chest. The woman certainly noticed the shock on my face as she continued talking, telling me not to get upset. I opened my mouth to say something, but by then, my husband had tuned in to the conversation and told her to leave.

I could feel the anger and disappointment rising in me, both fighting for their right to be heard. I fought back tears. My husband grabbed the kids. It was time to go.

By the time we got to the car, I was enraged and humiliated. My husband held me as I sobbed in the passenger seat. This woman didn’t know I had social anxiety. She didn’t know how much I was carrying. If I knew the name of this woman, I would still keep her identity private. But the reality is, I do not know her name, and she does not know mine. She didn’t bother to introduce herself before she projected her own views of what is an acceptable way to feed a child onto me.

If this had been the only incident there, I could have put it off as someone having a bad day. Unfortunately, it was the last of many negative experiences we had with this specific community. It was the final nail in the coffin for us. After that day, my husband and I agreed we wouldn’t return to that parish again.

Putting yourself out there to share parts of your life online isn’t always easy, but this was one of the times I was glad to have a space to share what happened and encourage other breastfeeding moms.

Despite having a relatively small audience compared to many, I shared a video about the incident. Comments immediately started pouring in.

I won’t misrepresent the comment section — it was overwhelmingly positive and supportive. I was grateful to know that I wasn’t alone and to have other Catholic moms empathize with how I felt.

It wasn’t only other moms in the comment section, either. One kind-hearted priest even joined in, saying, “As a priest: bring your children, feed your children, and thank you for your amazing work as mothers! (And thanks be to God for creating moms this way.)”

But not all the comments were positive.

Some people agreed with the woman who approached me, not seeing any issue with what she said. I could immediately detect the stench of purity culture as it seeped into the comments. They declared breastfeeding without a cover to be immodest. They said I should be careful not to cause the men around me in Mass to sin.

These Catholics were a minority in the comment section. But many of their comments were disturbing, saying things like, “No one should have their boobs out at Mass. Have some reverence for Christ,” and “I think breastfeeding without a cover is third-world behavior. Let’s be civilized, shall we?” Some suggested that mothers who breastfeed openly in Mass are only doing it for attention.

I replayed exactly what the woman at Mass said to me, and my mind continued to drift back to her last sentence. “This isn’t the place.”

If a Catholic Church isn’t the place to breastfeed your child, what is?

I wondered if this woman knew that paintings of our Blessed Mother openly nursing our Lord have been displayed in museums and Churches throughout history.

I wondered if she knew that the views she held mainly sprouted from the rise of formula feeding and the drastic decrease in breastfeeding rates that occurred in the 20th century.

I wondered if she knew that the shame and discomfort of breastfeeding in public was one of the main obstacles preventing mothers from breastfeeding in the first place.

I wondered if she truly cared about any of that or if she merely saw an opportunity to inflict her self-righteous views on another.

In the months leading up to this unfortunate encounter, I had been praying about the direction God was calling me to. Strangely, something good did come out of the scenario because what happened was confirmation to me that there is still work to be done in this area.

There were women in my comment section that day, suggesting that breastfeeding mothers should sit in the cry room to nurse. Or stand in the back of the Church during Mass. Or worst of all, that they should stay home entirely if they’re not going to cover themselves.

But here’s the truth: breastfeeding mothers belong in Mass.

They belong in the pews, with or without a cover. What could be more fitting than mothers making a great sacrifice for the sake of their children as the priest holds the Host and says, “This is my body, which will be given up for you.”

Taking small children to Mass is not an easy feat. Keeping them calm and quiet and fed is not always simple. But do not let anyone fool you into thinking you and your children don’t belong there. Not only have many Catholic mothers and saints gone before you, but in those moments, you are raising saints of your own, who are just as welcome in the presence of the Lord as you are.

I don’t expect everyone to agree on the best way to approach breastfeeding in public, and even though there is nothing wrong with breastfeeding without a cover, I think most mothers want to be discreet. I have never seen a breastfeeding mother, in Church or elsewhere, flippantly waving her breasts around as this woman in Mass seemed to think I was doing (as well as several individuals in the comments, including the woman who compared breastfeeding openly to a “peep show.”)

If a woman discreetly feeding her fussy child in the pew in front of you offends your sensibilities, or your own view of modesty leads you to shame a mother for breastfeeding instead of encouraging her, it may be time to reexamine your heart and remember everyone else is not required to share your opinion. Breastfeeding mothers belong in Mass. Your cynical view of said mothers does not.

Thank you for reading part 1 of my breastfeeding series! Part 2 will look at how women have breastfed throughout history and how our Blessed Mother is an example for all of us.

If you enjoyed this post or want to support my work, feel free to Buy Me a Coffee. You can also follow me on Instagram for more content. Thank you for being here!

“Eight,” the woman said proudly.

Everyone around me audibly gasped.

When my husband and I were in the process of becoming Catholic, we bounced back and forth between a Novus Ordo (NO) and Traditional Latin Mass (TLM) parish. Aside from the obvious differences, like the liturgy and the number of women wearing veils, the most striking difference between the two was the number of children in each family.

The NO parish (our home parish) was extremely family-friendly. It’s part of the reason we felt called there in the first place. The parish calendar frequently had events for families, they had a thriving children’s ministry, and we never felt anything but welcome when we attended Mass with our young, rather loud, children. If you attended the family Mass at this parish, you would see plenty of families with young children, but most families included less than four children — a relatively small number compared to the stereotypical Catholic family with eight, nine, or more.

You Have How Many Kids?

Every year on Mother’s Day, our pastor gave out flowers to various groups of mothers (i.e., the newest mother, the most experienced mother, the mother of a priest), and one category was always the mother with the most children.

First, mothers with four or more children were asked to stand. Then five or more, and so on. One year, the woman left standing at the end of it all announced that she had eight children, and everyone around us audibly gasped.

At the time, it made me chuckle. If they had done a similar exercise at the TLM parish, more than half of the moms in the room would still be standing. When we attended the TLM, the parking lot was filled with minivans and 15-passenger vans (or the CAV as some like to call it).

In Mass, there were rows and rows of young couples, most with six or more children. The mother was usually holding her youngest baby in her arms (and often, visibly pregnant). Anyone who has attended a TLM or been a part of a TLM community may have had a similar experience.

You may say, “Well, it’s because the couples at a NO parish are using birth control.” I have heard many Catholics online reference a statistic about the difference in contraceptive use (and approval of contraceptive use) between those who attend the NO and those who attend the TLM.

According to the survey conducted by Fr. Donald Kloster, 2% of TLM-attending Catholics approved of contraception compared to 89% of NO-attending Catholics. There are certainly factors that make it problematic to compare these two populations, but, truthfully, I’m not interested in debating the faithfulness of couples based on which liturgy they attend.

Instead, my experience both in person and with various Catholics online, especially with those who refer to themselves as “traditional” Catholics, has made me realize that there is another reason why “trad” Catholics have so many children so close together. It’s a reason that concerns me because of the way it has impacted young Catholic couples in both TLM and NO communities.

The Blessing of Large Families

I’ll admit, I always wanted to have a lot of children, even before becoming Catholic. When I was in high school, my friends would routinely joke that I was destined to grow up, get married, and have 10 kids. And while 10 specifically was never the goal (when my husband and I did get married at 23, we discussed having maybe 4 or 5 children), when I joined the Church and accepted the teaching of being open to life, a family as large as the one I used to joke about suddenly seemed like an actual possibility.

That being said, I had no problem and still have no problem with the idea of having a large family. In the culture we live in, what could be more counter-cultural than having a lot of kids and considering them all a blessing? It’s a beautiful testament to our Faith. But when we attended a TLM parish, it started to feel like the number of children was an indication of holiness. A larger family was better than a smaller one, right? And with a small family of only two children at the time, I felt like the odd one out.

Like many other women, I found myself believing the idea that, barring some circumstance that prevented you from having children, we were meant to have as many kids as possible. I found myself mentally counting the child-bearing years I had left, wondering how many we could realistically have.

NFP vs. Contraception

During the process of becoming Catholic, I was working through a course to become a birth educator while also reading through Sheila Kippley’s work on ecological breastfeeding.

Since my husband and I started RCIA while I was newly postpartum with our second child (and we were in the midst of an extremely traumatic situation unrelated to the birth of our second), I needed a way to prevent pregnancy without having to learn a specific method of NFP.

Over the next two years, I not only practiced ecological breastfeeding myself but also spent hours and hours researching natural child spacing and talking about it online (despite being met with extreme hostility from certain groups of women every time I brought it up).

After reflecting on my research and the conversations that came from an unfortunate incident at the TLM parish we attended, I realized what was so problematic about TLM communities is that many (though not all) of the women believed that simply the state of being fertile meant that it was necessary for you to be pregnant, or at the very least, that it would be wrong to try and avoid pregnancy, whether you were newly postpartum or not.

It is a common point of contention when faithful Catholics are arguing with “rad trad” men or women online — the belief many of these men and women have that NFP is a sin or that using it to avoid pregnancy in any scenario is no different than contraceptive use, even though the Church is clear on this teaching. I don’t think all couples or even the majority of couples who attend TLM believe this, but I think those who do have been rather loud about it.

I’ve seen far too many Catholic men and women online assume ill intentions when another Catholic announces their use of NFP. And when the topic of preventing pregnancy postpartum comes up, usually in the context of being asked about birth control at a postpartum appointment, I have seen many women express, “Why should I avoid pregnancy?” and “Why is getting pregnant again such a bad thing?”

Is It Truly Traditional?

As women, our fertility is a beautiful thing. Children are indeed a blessing, no matter when they come. But there is an underlying belief in these “traditional” circles that anything other than letting babies come in God’s timing is against God’s design. My problem with this belief is that the way most of these women approach motherhood in the postpartum period is actually quite modern — and if we wanted to know how God designed our bodies and what our bodies were designed to do when it comes to fertility, we would have to remove modern luxuries from the equation.

Historically speaking, the average woman did not have 10 or more children, nor did she have her children less than one year apart. There are obviously numerous factors that have contributed to the fertility rates throughout history, but especially before the use of birth control and in communities where women do not use birth control, natural child spacing has been a major factor.

According to Our World in Data, in 1800, the average woman had between five and seven children. For American women, the number is slightly higher, with the average woman having an estimated seven to eight children. It was common for children to be spaced two to three years apart. Unfortunately, because the child mortality rates were so high, it was also common for parents to lose two or three of those children.

A lot of changes were happening during the 19th and 20th centuries. Although the first infant formula became available in 1865, formula became much more popular during the 1950s and 1960s. By the 1970s, breastfeeding rates in the U.S. had reached an all-time-low.

Despite the claims you will see online about breastfeeding and how it isn’t a reliable method of avoiding pregnancy, this is not actually true from a biological standpoint. Yes, it is definitely possible to get pregnant while you’re breastfeeding. It is also true that breastfeeding is meant to delay ovulation.

This happens because breastfeeding increases the prolactin in a woman’s body, and prolactin prevents the production of gonadotropin-releasing hormone (GnRH), which controls the release of follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) and luteinizing hormone (LH) (which are necessary for ovulation).

But Why Doesn’t Breastfeeding Work for Every Woman?

It’s true that breastfeeding has allowed women throughout history to naturally space their children. The reason why this isn’t always effective for modern women is the act of breastfeeding alone isn’t always enough to delay ovulation, and historically, women had much different breastfeeding habits.

Generally, the frequency of feeding is the most significant factor when it comes to how long ovulation is delayed. Methods that have proven to be effective involve strict standards about how often you nurse your baby. Ecological breastfeeding, for example, requires that you nurse your baby on demand and skip the pacifiers. The rapid decline of ecological breastfeeding in the 1900s led to children being spaced closer to one year apart.

Recently, Elena Bridgers, a science writer whose research focuses on hunter-gatherer societies, discussed how the frequency of breastfeeding in these societies was usually every 13 minutes. If you’re thinking to yourself, “That sounds exhausting!” — you’re right! It is. I’m not suggesting you have to breastfeed your baby every 13 minutes or that doing so somehow makes you a better mother or Catholic.

However, the underlying message here is that God designed a way for our bodies to delay ovulation postpartum, and that says something about what our bodies are meant to do. Our lifestyles are so different today than women hundreds or even thousands of years ago. Breastfeeding does still effectively delay ovulation for many women. (The effectiveness of the lactation amenorrhea method and ecological breastfeeding is well-researched and well-documented).

But even when breastfeeding doesn’t successfully delay ovulation, the belief that women should be having babies as close together as possible is not rooted in history or science — and if we are to trust in God’s design, it’s important to know that He designed our bodies to give us time to heal postpartum.

What I Want Every Catholic Woman to Know

Anyone who has followed me online for a while knows my message to Catholic women is not that you need to use natural child spacing, but that you need to know it exists.

God’s design does not include you getting pregnant at six weeks postpartum, even though that may be possible. Why? Because your body needs time to heal.

Experts say it is best to wait at least 18 months after giving birth to try for another baby. (This is a general rule, and there are a lot of individual factors that can determine when a woman is ready to be pregnant again.) While there is an increase in the risk of things like premature birth and low birth weight when a woman gets pregnant too soon after giving birth, it also doesn’t give her enough time to heal or recover from the demands of pregnancy and breastfeeding, which can lead to nutrient depletion and other issues.

While there is certainly nothing immoral about having babies close together, there is also nothing immoral about allowing your body time to heal after giving birth, whether that happens naturally through breastfeeding or through the use of a method of NFP.

The holiness of your family has never been and never will be determined by the number of children you have or how close together they are.

The couple that has one child and then doesn’t have another child for years due to secondary infertility is not less holy than the family that got pregnant easily and had seven children. The family that has children with significant disabilities and has to pause on having children is no less holy than the family with five healthy, typical children.

And the family that simply spaces children naturally to provide ample time for healing to happen is no less holy than the family that has three children under 5.

As Catholics, we’re called to be open to life. But being open to life doesn’t mean neglecting our own health or having kids as close together as possible. Every teaching from the Church is meant for our good — and when we realize our bodies are designed to naturally space children, it is far easier to understand this particular teaching is not meant to harm us. Your healing is important. Time to heal postpartum isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. And God is always familiar with what we need.

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My midwife was out of town, and I had spent the entire night next to a sick and restless toddler, naturally leading to me getting very little sleep. I had prayed all week for my sweet baby girl to stay put until Friday, but ultimately said, “Not my will, Lord, but Your will be done.” So when I felt my water break and knew it wouldn’t be long before baby girl arrived, I said, “Okay, Lord. Your will it is.”

I reminded myself of what happened last time I was in labor, less than 3 hours from start to finish, and tried my best to remain calm as the first wave of contractions hit.

I was steadier this time. Knowing I didn’t have to rush anywhere, so there was no risk of another car baby, was comforting — but part of me also dreaded another precipitous labor.

Most people assume a faster labor is better. In my experience, an average-length labor feels like wading into a wave pool — pushing your way through as the waves slowly become stronger. A precipitous labor feels like being thrown into the deep end and forced to swim for your life. If I had the choice, I would choose the 16-hour labor I had with my first over the 3-hour labor I had with my second. But when my water breaking was the first sign of labor again, I knew it didn’t matter because I didn’t get a choice.

Considering how quickly things escalated with baby #2, we contacted the midwife on call right away. I leaned over the dining room table for support while my husband let her know that we would wait a little bit to see if things were moving along.

Less than 10 minutes later, a gush of fluid spilled out all over the floor as I sat on my birth ball, and we knew it was time.

“I’ll be there in 40-45 minutes,” my midwife said.

My stomach clenched. “I hope she makes it in time,” I told my husband, as I prepared for another contraction and the possibility of having a second unintentional, unassisted birth.

It was shortly after 5 in the morning, and I made my way back upstairs. I kneeled on our mattress, leaning over my birth ball for support, and swayed back and forth, determined to stay in that position, the only position that felt comfortable.

Even though I had been in labor for less than an hour, I had already drifted off into another world. The difference between labor this time around and labor with our first baby made it seem almost surreal. When I was in labor the first time, the nurses all commented on how content I seemed. They were surprised that I was smiling and laughing in between contractions. I don’t think I was smiling much this time. Instead, I was focused. Determined. And perhaps, a bit unsure of myself.

Thankfully, my midwife did arrive while I was still in labor, but by then, contractions were intense. I stayed in my hands-and-knees position as my husband came in and out of the room, going back and forth between comforting me and taking care of our other two children. Two very rambunctious children who were, by the grace of God, surprisingly calm that morning.

Much like my last labor, within two hours of my water breaking, I could feel our baby moving down, and contractions were so strong and so painful that it was difficult for me to manage them. I was mostly unaware of what was happening around me. I knew the midwife and birth assistant were there because I could hear them whispering, but I was unable to do anything other than try not to panic at the intensity and frequency of my contractions. It was truly the most intense pain I’ve ever felt, and after just a couple of hours, I was ready for it to be over.

Less than an hour before baby girl was born, I felt ready to push and tried to remind myself to slow down and breathe to avoid tearing. The birth assistant reminded me to slow my breath. Unclench my fists. Relax my jaw. I breathed slowly in and out, disappointed with every contraction that I couldn’t feel her crowning yet. All I could think about was it being over.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” I thought to myself, knowing that I didn’t have much of a choice. Even though I had only been in labor for two and a half hours, I was so tired, and contractions were still increasing in intensity.

So many thoughts ran through my head during and between contractions. I wondered how much longer until she was born. I wondered if I could do this again. I felt so much more aware of every sensation and every single thing that was happening within my body than I did with the previous two births. I could feel her descending and moving through the birth canal. I could feel my body stretching to make room for her. I tried to focus on the music in the background and my husband rubbing my arms. I was so focused on the contractions that I wouldn’t hear him walk in and out of the room — but the second I felt his touch was the only time my body would relax.

And then suddenly, I felt our baby crowning. Deep breath in and out. She would be here soon.

A couple more pushes, and her head was out. Then her shoulders and the rest of her body came out easily, onto the bed where I had positioned myself for the past two hours.

The transition from extreme pain to seeing our baby is something I’m unsure how to describe. As soon as I saw her, it didn’t matter how much pain I was in. There was nothing then but joy. Pure, indescribable joy as I picked her up, cradling her and sobbing at the sight of her sweet little face and the sound of her sudden and immediate cries.

Just moments before, I was in the worst pain of my life, wondering if I could keep going. But it didn’t matter any longer, and as soon as I saw her face, I knew that yes, Lord willing, I could do this again. Every single second was worth it to meet this precious life that God entrusted me with. I held her close to me, still sobbing, and the only thing I could think to myself was, “I will protect you. You will always be safe with me.” Such is the joy and sacrifice of motherhood.

I’ve heard some people say the only reason women continue to have babies is that they forget the pain of birth. Except I haven’t forgotten the pain — even from my first birth in the hospital nearly nine years ago. I doubt I ever will. But the one thing that has been more memorable than the pain every time was the joy I felt when my baby was finally in my arms.

During this birth, the midwife and birth assistant were extremely hands-off, only stepping in if they needed to. After labor was over, my midwife joked, “You didn’t even need us here.” But I’m so glad she was there. Having a team we could trust for our first home birth was extremely comforting and gave us the peace of mind to know it was the right choice.

We chose a home birth mainly out of necessity and a desire to avoid another baby born in the car. It wasn’t like many of the home births you see on Instagram. There was no birth tub. No twinkly lights. It was messy and painful, but worth it.

While I lay in bed with our baby girl, my husband brought me coffee and pancakes. We let our other children come meet their new baby sister. And just like that, we had another little one to love.

I’m not interested in selling anyone the idea of a home birth. And if you had been there to witness it, I don’t know that it would have sold you on the idea anyways. Online, there are two extremes — birth is either a horrifying death sentence or it is a magical, euphoric experience. But in the quiet of that morning, our baby was born at home. It was neither terrifying nor idyllic, but the room was filled with hope and joy at the end of it all, and that will always be enough for me.

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You could blame my upbringing or my people-pleasing tendencies that I’ve since worked hard to kick to the curb, but the more times I frequent the sacrament of confession, the more I realize this is simply what life is like without the grace that comes from reconciliation. Feeling like no matter what you do, you can’t get as close to God as you want to be. Feeling like you have no assurance of His forgiveness, even when you know He is loving and merciful.

Life Before Confession

My desperate nightly prayer wasn’t simply shame imparted on me by my less-than-compassionate mother, although I know that added to the chaos of my anxious mind. It was more than that — it was a weight and burden I carried into my adulthood. Even in the times when I chose to seek God the best way I knew how, I still wondered, “How will I know I’m forgiven?” That is, until I became Catholic.

If you’re not the type of Catholic who jumps for joy at the idea of going to confession, I certainly can’t blame you. There are few things more challenging than examining our own conscience and then confessing our sins out loud. But if you’ve found yourself avoiding the sacrament for months, if not years, I hope my perspective of what it’s like to live without this sacrament gives you the courage to reconcile with Jesus once again.

When I think back to the time in my life when I had such faith in God but a strong aversion to the Catholic Church, what’s most striking to me is how often I asked the Lord to forgive me. I didn’t ask only for forgiveness for the sins from that day, but for the same sins over and over. I was a broken record with no knowledge of how to get back to the beautiful music I once played. No matter how many times I asked for forgiveness, I felt so guilty — how could I know I was truly forgiven?

In the many churches I attended as a Protestant, I was told to confess my sins directly to God, and so I did. Over and over again. Some churches even went as far as instructing us to confess our sins to a trusted friend or mentor for accountability, so I tried that as well, but it only lasted for so long.

It was easy to become complacent, and I found myself slowly slipping away from the Lord without even realizing it. In times of prayer, I came before Him like a child, holding one hand out with the things I was willing to share while holding my weaknesses tightly behind my back.

Instead of letting Him truly change the parts of me that needed Him the most, I hid from Him. On the day of my first confession, holding a list of all my sins from the past 19 years, I was Eve in the Garden of Eden, and I could hide no longer.

The Life-Changing Power of Reconciliation

We’ve all seen the power of it in books and movies. Whether it’s a confession of love or a confession of past hurt, we’ve witnessed the earth-shattering moment when someone finally shares what they’ve been in denial about for years. There’s something about speaking the words out loud that makes them real. And yet in our spiritual lives, we often convince ourselves that our spiritual connection with God is enough.

The thing is, we’re not just spiritual beings — we’re physical beings, and God in His infinite wisdom knew we needed physical sacraments, like the sacrament of reconciliation. My first experience with this sacrament is one I will never forget. While confessing nearly 19 years of sins was no easy task, the grace that awaited me there was life-changing. In a matter of minutes, my priest was able to pick apart the things I had struggled with my entire life. Things I didn’t even think to mention.

While I have felt God speak to me many times, both during silent prayer and through the words of others, in my first confession, it was as if Jesus Himself was sitting in the room, looking right through me. And in a way, He was.

When I see another Catholic question why we have to go to confession, I understand that growing up in the Church may lead to a different view of this sacrament. Knowing exactly how challenging it is to take that first step, I can’t blame anyone for being hesitant, even with the option of confessing anonymously behind a screen. I haven’t been Catholic long enough to speak with any kind of authority on the subject, but I do have a perspective that most cradle Catholics don’t — I know what it’s like to live without the sacraments.

The idea of going to confession might seem intimidating to some and horrifying to others, but take it from someone who had to confess nearly a lifetime of sins face-to-face with her priest — there is nothing but grace waiting for you there.

Go to Confession, Jesus Is Waiting

Like anything in life, when we’re told the same thing over and over, it’s easy for it to become ordinary. When you’ve heard “Go to confession” your entire life, it’s easy for that to become ordinary, too. You might start to question whether you need to go at all, or convince yourself it’s only for those who are living in constant sin. The truth is, confession is for all of us, and it’s a sacrament we should take advantage of no matter where we are in our spiritual lives.

Although the Church only requires us to go once a year, faithful and holy saints such as St. John Paul II, St. Thérèse of Lisieux, and St. Mother Teresa of Calcutta frequented the sacrament. We don’t have to be scrupulous to understand the grace that awaits us there.

The secular world tells us we shouldn’t feel guilty for the sins we commit, labeling “Catholic guilt” as a horrific thing imposed on innocent people by the Church. However, guilt is a signal that we’ve done something wrong. The way we rid ourselves of it is by confessing our sins with true contrition before God and a priest, who acts in persona Christi — in the person of Christ.

If you were raised Catholic and haven’t been to confession in a while, or you’re someone who doesn’t see the point of confession, let me assure you — the overwhelming grace and mercy of God is life-changing, and you’ll find it in the sacrament of reconciliation. No matter what currently weighs on your heart. No matter how simple or complex it may seem. Take it to Jesus and let Him lift the burden from you.

Don’t let the doubts, fears, and overwhelm take over — no matter how long it has been, go to confession. Jesus is waiting for you there.

It’s moments like these when I’m reminded that living out our faith is the way we influence our children the most — and it’s something I’m keenly aware of as a convert who rejected these traditions for so many years.

Little holy moments of faith

Our oldest child, who was recently baptized, still remembers attending a Protestant church and getting dropped off in the children’s ministry while my husband and I attended the service without her. She remembers church being a fun place where she got to play with other kids and watch silly videos. It took her a while to get used to sitting in Mass with us, especially once the novelty wore off and she realized it wasn’t as “entertaining” as our old church. But for our son, Holy Mother Church is all he has ever known.

We started the process of joining the Church shortly after he was born. He attended our first Mass with us, wrapped snugly in a carrier close to my chest. Now, at almost two, he’ll point to a crucifix and sweetly exclaim “Jesus!” and sing along to “Salve Regina” on the way to the grocery store.

As holy as those little moments are, it can be so easy to compare ourselves to others. When we see other children behaving better than ours in Mass. When our kids don’t seem to understand the Faith as well as other kids their age. When we can’t seem to get the whole family to sit still for even one decade of the rosary. We might ask ourselves, “Will any of this stick?”, praying that our imperfect parenting is enough to send them on the right path.

And yet, even in all the messiness of life, our children are paying attention. They see when we pray first thing in the morning. They see when we ask God for help in our suffering. They see the grace that radiates from us when we leave confession. They see how we apologize and ask for forgiveness when we lose our temper. Even when we may struggle to see the significance of these moments while they’re happening, they impact our children more than we realize.

Embracing the physical and the spiritual

As a convert, I think back to all the years when our daughter didn’t have any faith traditions to cling to. There were no images in our home to remind her of our faith. There were no prayers to memorize that she could repeat herself. There were no brave saints to look up to. While we did pray together at times and read our Bibles, the lack of tangible elements made it difficult for her to connect with our faith.

The beauty of the Catholic faith is that it acknowledges both the spiritual and the physical. Baptism isn’t just a symbol, and yet we still have the physical matter of the water. The Eucharist isn’t just a symbol, and yet we have (before the consecration) the physical matter of the bread and wine.

No loving parent would deny their child physical love and affection. Study after study has shown the importance of physical touch, even for infants. If physical touch is so essential for a child’s development, why should we deny our children the physical elements of our Christian faith?

Planting seeds of faith in motherhood requires physical and spiritual elements as well. Pray out loud, even when your kids aren’t paying attention. Keep them in Mass with you, even when they’re fussing and won’t sit still. Fill your home with reminders of Our Lord, the Blessed Mother, and the saints in heaven.

Motherhood isn’t easy, and if you’re wondering whether all the little things you’re teaching your child matter, take heart. Keep watering the seeds you’ve planted and praying for your children. Even the smallest things have eternal significance.

If you’ve struggled to teach your children the Faith or feel like you’re behind, know that it’s never too late to start. Making such a drastic change in faith with little ones in tow wasn’t easy, but every Mass we attended got a little bit easier. Our daughter does remember our life before we became Catholic, but she embraces the Faith we have now.

Let us be diligent in planting seeds of faith on this journey of motherhood. As we continue to walk the path of holiness, our children will follow.

This article was first published in Radiant, a publication of OSV.

I shrugged and smiled.

“An epidural is a tool in labor just like anything else.”

I’ve given birth three times, but I’ve never had an epidural. With my first, I intentionally planned an unmedicated hospital birth after months of researching the birth process. With my second, I gave birth in the car (unintentionally, of course). The third time around, we decided home was the best option. But I meant what I said to her about epidurals. They’re a tool in labor, just like anything else.

You might be surprised to believe some women don’t agree with that statement. Some women believe getting an epidural is “cheating” in labor. Honestly, before I entered the online birth world, I didn’t believe that women still felt shamed for choosing to give birth in the hospital or for getting an epidural. That was the norm, after all.

But that day, listening to the woman next to me tell me about her epidural, I could hear it in her voice. It was subtle, but it was there. She felt less than because she couldn’t make it through labor unmedicated. I don’t know if someone she knew made her feel that way, or if she had picked up on the vibe in the online birth community. Either way, it was the tone of her voice that day that pushed me to focus on helping women who wanted to give birth in the hospital, epidural or not.

On Birth Wars and Shame

About a year before that conversation, I was lying in bed with my toddler, listening to a podcast episode about the “birth wars” among Christian women. One of the things that stuck out to me the most was how she talked about the number of moms who were shamed for giving birth in the hospital, because to many women, home birth was considered a holier choice.

I remember thinking that must be an exaggeration. Over 98% of women give birth in the hospital, most of them getting an epidural. The number doesn’t change much when you look at birth choices in Christian circles. So if the majority of women are giving birth in the hospital, who’s shaming them? The women who give birth at home or in a field or wherever are vastly outnumbered.

My personal experience with birth choices impacted my perspective, too. As a woman who had only had unmedicated births, I had the opposite experience. When I was pregnant with my first child and told other moms that I was planning to forgo the epidural, they told me I wouldn’t be able to do it. I even had family members tell me, “Just wait until you go into labor, you’ll be begging for the epidural.” Between my own personal experience and my knowledge of how common it is to give birth in the hospital with an epidural, I struggled to believe anyone was being shamed for that choice.

Then I entered the online birth space, and I realized what she said in the podcast was true. Most women, even in Christian circles, give birth in the hospital with an epidural — but the online birth community (especially the Christian/conservative birth community) is dominated by people talking about home birth and unmedicated birth.

Is It Really Shame or Intuition?

Shame is certainly a word that brings up a lot of feelings (and a lot of opinions). I’ve seen some birth workers online claim that when a woman says she felt shamed for her decision to get an epidural, it wasn’t “shame,” but instead, her intuition telling her she made the wrong choice. Essentially, they imply that the women weren’t actually shamed by others; they just feel ashamed because they didn’t do what was best for their baby.

I’ll admit I’ve seen this happen — even on my own posts — where a certain topic comes up and someone will immediately get defensive even though I didn’t shame anyone. At the same time, I’ve also seen many individuals actively shaming women for their choices, saying things like, “This is why you shouldn’t get an epidural,” or “You should have given birth at home,” on posts when a woman is sharing about her traumatic birth experience.

At the end of the day, I know it goes both ways. There are women on both ends of the birth spectrum who shame other women because they believe their choices are superior. But when I saw a first-time mom I follow say that she wouldn’t be sharing any of her birth choices online because she didn’t want anyone to make her feel bad about them (she was giving birth in the hospital), I knew there was something off.

A Defense of Birth Workers

There are so many birth workers out there that I know — midwives, doulas, and educators — who have dedicated their careers to defending physiologic birth. Many refuse to work in hospitals anymore. Many will tell you out-of-hospital birth is the only way. As a mom who has given birth in the hospital and outside of it, I do get where they’re coming from. I know they’ve seen some of the unfortunate things that can happen in the hospital. They’ve seen too many women pushed into unnecessary interventions, leading to unnecessary C-sections. Even worse, they’ve seen the way some women are mistreated. I feel for them and understand their position.

I believe that our choices in birth matter. But I’ve shifted my perspective on who I want to help and how I want to help them because I believe every woman deserves a quality birth education. Every woman should be able to overcome her fear and go into birth equipped with knowledge and faith. There are already many women online who talk about home birth — but where does that leave the majority of women who will give birth in the hospital? Those women, in my opinion, need access to birth education even more than the woman who plans to freebirth in a field (which I do not recommend, by the way, but that’s a conversation for another day).

Where I Stand

Birth choices are not one-size-fits-all, and they never will be. As a Christian woman, I believe that birth matters, and it’s a process we should be curious about. It’s a process we should seek to understand. But if we approach it with a black-and-white mindset, leaving no room for nuance, then we fail many women who find themselves making tough decisions without any real guidance.

Birth is a deeply personal and vulnerable experience, and if there’s one thing you’ll hear me say over and over again, it’s this: How you view birth matters more than where you give birth. If you want to know where I stand, that is the answer I’ll give you. My heart is to help women overcome their fear of birth, so they can have the mental clarity they need to make the best decision for their family.