A Blog For Mums
I remember the first time I heard the term “cluster feeding.” It was about three days into new motherhood, around 3am, and I was Googling with one hand while my baby latched on for what felt like the hundredth time that night. My nipples were on fire, my eyes were burning from exhaustion, and I’d started quietly sobbing into a muslin cloth. “Cluster feeding,” the internet whispered. “Totally normal.” Great. But also… help?
I thought something was wrong. With her. With me. With the whole idea of breastfeeding, if I’m being honest. No one told me that a newborn could feed for what feels like hours without a break—or that this could go on for days. I had imagined it would be something like: baby feeds, baby sleeps, baby poos, repeat. That turned out to be laughably optimistic.
Instead, I got baby feeds, baby feeds, baby feeds, baby screams because the milk hasn’t caught up yet, baby feeds again while I try not to cry and wonder if I’ll ever get to eat toast with two hands again.
Cluster feeding, for the uninitiated, is when babies—often during growth spurts—nurse more frequently for a stretch of time, sometimes hours on end. In theory, it helps boost your supply to meet their new needs. In practice, it can make you feel like you’ve become a permanent fixture on the sofa with your top halfway off and a forgotten cup of tea slowly going cold next to you.
I wasn’t prepared for how relentless it would feel. Or how trapped. I couldn’t plan anything. I couldn’t nap. I couldn’t think. I honestly started to believe I was doing something wrong. Surely other mums weren’t stuck under a feeding baby for seven hours straight while eating dry crackers and Googling “how to know if you’re doing motherhood properly.”
If you’re reading this while stuck in the feeding vortex, just know: you’re not alone. And no, you’re not broken.
Let’s be clear: there’s no magic fix. But a few things did make those intense days and nights feel slightly more manageable. These were my lifelines:
Once I stopped fighting it—trying to time feeds or create a “schedule” I saw on some app—it got a little easier. I started thinking of cluster feeding like a thunderstorm. It rolls in, it’s noisy and overwhelming, but it passes.
I ended up creating a little nest on the sofa with snacks, water bottles (plural!), a phone charger, TV remote, and some muslins. I even kept a clean top nearby for when the inevitable milk tsunami struck. Having everything in arm’s reach made a big difference.
If you have a partner, parent, or friend around—this is the time to shamelessly delegate. Washing up? Not my problem. Dinner? Surprise me. If you’re solo parenting, it’s even more important to drop the guilt about everything else. Your job right now is feeding and surviving.
I couldn’t control when or how long she’d feed, but I could control little things. Like queuing up a favourite show or podcast. Or getting dressed before midday. Or just brushing my teeth before the next round. Small victories count big during cluster chaos.
Turns out, most of us go through it—we just don’t always talk about it in real terms. The moment another mum said, “Oh yeah, mine used to feed for six hours straight in the evenings,” I felt about ten kilos lighter (emotionally, not physically—still waiting on that one).
Cluster feeding isn’t just physically draining—it’s an emotional sucker punch too. I went from tender adoration to utter despair in the space of ten minutes. There were moments I adored the closeness, her tiny fingers curled around mine. And others where I just wanted to hand her to someone else and run out of the house in my slippers.
The guilt was overwhelming. I worried I wasn’t producing enough milk. I panicked that she wasn’t sleeping because of something I was doing wrong. I cried more than she did some days. And no one warned me that feeling touched out was normal—that even though you love your baby to bits, there comes a point where if one more thing makes contact with your body, you might scream.
Let me tell you now: you are not failing. Your baby isn’t broken. Your body is doing an extraordinary thing. And you’re allowed to hate it a bit sometimes while still loving your baby.
One night—day nine or ten—I looked down and realised my baby had stopped feeding and fallen asleep on my chest. Her little milk-drunk face was smushed into my skin, her hand resting on my heart. She looked peaceful. I was exhausted, sore, and desperately needed a shower, but in that moment, I also felt something else: pride.
We’d made it through another day. She was growing. And somehow, I was still standing. Well, sitting, technically, but I was alive and still mostly sane.
Cluster feeding nearly broke me. But it didn’t. And now that I’m on the other side of it, I wish I could go back and tell my past self a few things:
Most of all, I’d tell her: you’ve got this. Even if your top is inside out, your hair’s got porridge in it, and you can’t remember the last time you stood up without a baby attached to you—you’re doing it. And that’s more than enough.
If you’re in the thick of cluster feeding right now, please know this: it’s okay to find it hard. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to wonder if you’ll ever feel like yourself again.
You will.
Until then, make yourself a little feeding nest, cue up something comforting to watch, and maybe keep a stash of chocolate nearby. Because if you’re going to be a round-the-clock milk machine for a while, you deserve hazard pay—in snacks, hugs, and the knowledge that you are not alone.
You’re amazing. You’ve got this. And when it finally passes, you’ll realise just how strong you really were.
Baby Care
