With my first baby four years ago, breastfeeding was a slog from the start. My nipples blistered and got infected. It took weeks of pumping after every excruciating feeding to get my supply up. I went to breastfeeding “circles,” met with four lactation consultants and never went anywhere without a nipple shield. For 8 1/2 months, I kept at it, not because I ever really loved it, but because I thought I had to. In hindsight, I regret how doggedly I kept at it in spite of the obvious toll it took on my mental health. I was so fixated on nursing him at the breast, it consumed me. When I got pregnant again last year, I vowed, along with my husband, that I would not go down that path again. If breastfeeding came somewhat easily this time around, great. If not, I would move on. Within 48 hours of my son’s birth, my nipples had erupted into familiar blisters, and the baby and I were both in tears during every feeding — even as a hospital lactation consultant looked on and reassured me that his latch looked fine, and the pain would get better. But I was just… done. When we got home from the hospital, I gave him 2 ounces of formula and immediately felt better. When my breasts start...