Abstract
In this edited interview, psychologists Nisha Gupta and Eric Greene interview Lori Jordan Fountain, psychology doctoral student and filmmaker of Inhabitation of Inhibition, an autophenomenological short film about the lived experience of breastfeeding in public. Despite the known benefits, antipathetic attitudes toward nursing in public persist, and “breastfeeding is perceived by many as dirty, sexual, embarrassing, and generally, something that should be kept behind closed doors.” Inspired by Sartre’s notion of the gaze, the mother in the film takes up the self as seen by the Other. By assuming the guilt of which she is blamed, she embodies and enacts the judgments placed on her, foregrounding the covert oppression endured by breastfeeding mothers. In this interview, Lori describes the liberation felt when responding to the objectifying gaze—a gaze that perceives her as a machine-like milk dispenser, a bad mother, and a sexual object. She shares how satire enables her to ‘flip the script’ in order to demonstrate, address, and challenge the absurd, oppressive narratives that shame breastfeeding mothers. The conversation explores how protesting this covert oppression through the language of filmmaking allowed Lori to work through it directly and experientially, just as one might in psychotherapy.
Keywords
Inhabitation of Inhibition is a phenomenological short film about the lived experience of breastfeeding in public. It evokes Sartre’s description of how the gaze of the other “objectifies me, petrifies me, degrades me, disintegrates my universe, alienates me from my possibilities, and strips me of my transcendence” (De Lacoste, 2004, p. 45). The film begins with the sound of a baby crying because she wants to be nursed. You see the mother sitting in a chair holding her baby in a coffee shop, and the mother starts to breastfeed her child. She then has this sinking feeling that people are staring at her, and finds herself scared to look up. She scans the room, and absorbs their reactions of disgust, scrutiny, and fascination: a scowl, a widening of the eyes as a hand clutches the chest, a mesmerized stare. She then starts to imagine their thoughts and tries to see herself the way they see her by taking up their gaze and embodying it. As she does this, three themes emerge: she now experiences herself as a weird machine-like object that pumps milk akin to a cow, a bad mother, and finally, a sexual object. She understands she is perceived as an exhibitionist, a strange, bad mother—because, you know, they think a good mother would not be breastfeeding her child in public. And instead of being seen as a mother who’s nourishing and nurturing her child, she becomes a fantasy for someone. In the film, I take up and enact these themes to their absurd extremes. The mother in the film thinks they judge her for exposing her breasts in public when they think she should simply give her baby a bottle or pacifier instead. You then hear the mother’s internal dialogue with her accusers, “You think this is weird and awful, you should see what I have to go through to give her a bottle.” You then see the mother sitting in the chair pumping rather than breastfeeding. She’s pumping because this is what she would have to do if she chose not to breastfeed her daughter in public. So throughout the film, we see the mother performing these accusations all while still being hooked up to her breast pump.
To expound a bit, I should probably mention that the expectation of mothers from the perspective of healthcare organizations is clear: a mother ought to breastfeed her child; their recommendation is to “exclusively breastfeed” for six months followed by nursing with complementary foods for at least 1 year. You can’t imagine how hard that is; I truly had no idea. This means that breast milk is literally the only thing they want mothers to feed their babies for the first 6 months(!) of their lives—which can often feel or actually be impossible because of all the systemic barriers to breastfeeding. These barriers include sexism, classism, and racism which lead to a lack of social and economic support including disapproval of breastfeeding in public. So if you ever want to leave your house with your baby for any extent of time while following the societal ought of breastfeeding guidelines and the social should not of breastfeeding in public, you would have to pump in advance in order to make a bottle to bring along. So pumping has really become a huge part of many breastfeeding mothers’ lives.
So, yeah, I started working on the film in fall of 2018, and the idea came to me during a class discussion about the evocative use of sound in film. I immediately remembered being haunted by the sound of my breast pump ‘speaking’ to me: “Weir-Do, Weir-Do”; “Bad-Mom, Bad-Mom”; and “Want-Some, Want-Some.” It sounds odd, but it’s a phenomenon that a lot of mothers who utilize breast pumps experience because it makes this monotonous and repetitive mechanical sound intoning something like, “rehnt-rehnt, rehnt-rehnt.” So I based the film on my own lived experiences of hearing the voice in the machine. Thus, each scene of the film corresponds to the words I heard ‘spoken’ by the breastpump and the associated breastfeeding experiences I have come to understand as producing them: the unwanted scrutniny of another’s presence as I learned to use my breast pump, the not-so-discreet escorting of children out of the room while I breastfeed my daughter at a family function, and the wanton stare of a man as I sat inside my car nursing in a vacant parking lot. But upon reflection, I realized that those words could be understood much like a Rorschach—a projective test, if you will. It’s reflecting to me what I’m already thinking. I realized I had internalized what I felt other people were thinking of me when they saw me breastfeeding in public. I thought, actually this is not weird. This does not make me a bad mom, and this is not sexual. What’s really weird is sitting at home hooked up to a machine that is like the mechanism to which a cow might be hooked up. And that’s what it feels like too. It’s like you’re on a production line expressing breast milk, and then carefully putting it in a bottle, and feeding it to your baby. That, to me, felt weirder. So after each accusatory gaze the mother in the film takes up, she then rejects the dehumanization with a resounding, “No!” I feel like this serves as a crucial rejection of being objectified and dehumanized and sexualized.
Can you tell us, why this film? Why was it important for you to decide to produce this? What meaning did it have for you to actually do it?
Just before I started the psychology program at West Georgia, I became a mother. And because of that, my whole perspective shifted. Everything that I thought I would research completely changed because I started seeing all of these difficulties and disparities and beauty and pain—so much about motherhood that I didn’t feel like other people were talking about, at least not in my experience. One of the most beautiful and challenging things for me was breastfeeding. I had my own issues with it, such as difficulties with latching and wondering if I am producing enough milk, and then producing too much, and I could go on and on. It was so hard. But what I didn’t expect is—you always hear “Breast is Best!” right? And all these things health organizations, doctors, and midwives are saying, you know, that mothers should breastfeed, mothers should breastfeed, mothers should breastfeed. You think if you’re doing that, you’re doing what you’re told is best for both you and your baby. But also, in my case, what I wanted, had chosen, and had expected to do. But I was shocked by the judgment I received for breastfeeding in public. It was something that was jarring for me. Before I even had a child, I would see a mother breastfeeding in public, and I would think to myself, “Yeah, go you! Go, you!” And because these are such common narratives, “Breast is Best!” I didn’t expect to have that scrutiny, the judgment, the shame for nursing my daughter in public. And it wasn’t just strangers; it was my family members too. It felt just really, really painful. I would just come back with all the statistics, try to tell them why I was doing what I was doing. But nothing I was saying to them could show them how they were hurting me or, in my view, hurting my daughter too. So at the end of the film, the camera shows the baby who was being nursed sitting in the chair all by herself. I did that as a way for people to think about not only what the mother is internalizing and feeling shameful about, but also to pose the question that I found myself considering: How much of that internalization is the baby taking up or feeling as well? As the baby is taking in the mother’s milk, what else is she taking in?
And so this was the film I wanted to make because I was sick of telling people. I wanted to show them. I think when you are telling a story, you’re describing something that has happened. But when they see it in a film, it’s almost like they can take up your position. They can simultaneously be a witness to what’s happening to the person on screen, but also take up their position. Through film, they can see; they can hear; they can experience; they can feel. It’s almost like they can touch it. It just brings the experience a little closer. And I could get creative with it. I didn’t realize it while I was thinking about it, but while I was doing it, it was so freeing. Because I kept doing things in the film that felt like a big “ . . . ** . . . you!” to all the people who said things to me, all the people who were judging me, objectifying me, taking me up as an object, and making it something sexual. That part felt really good; it felt very subversive. And not just on my behalf, but for all the other mothers out there who are merely responding to the demand of their baby’s cry by nursing them.
If you think about making this film as a psychologically healing process, what does that mean for you?
I didn’t expect that going into it, but I did find it to be an outlet for personal healing and transformation. I expected to just be trying to show what it feels like to have this experience of breastfeeding in public. But in doing that, I learned about myself. It allowed me to take myself up as a participant. Because as a mother, you just try and just go and just do—a lot of things are just in the moment and reactionary. You’re just in the mode of being-in-the-world; you’re not reflecting on it. Making this film gave me the time and place and medium to reflect on myself—not only as a phenomenological filmmaker, but as a mother and as a person. I saw the dangers of—what if I didn’t reject this objectification and dehumanization? What if I just held onto it and internalized it instead of holding it, examining it, and saying NO! and rejecting it? I saw the damage that it had already done to my psyche. And it made me realize that it wasn’t just me. And what if this could be damaging to my daughter too? And so I felt really liberated and justified. Yeah, it’s like, I got inside of my body and my mind, and I just opened up a window, and I could see something that I—that I couldn’t see before. And because I could touch it, see it, and feel it, it was very healing.
What I find really fascinating about your film is that you deliberately take up the role of the object. You had said you realized you were internalizing that objectification of the gaze, and in your film you are taking it up even more. You’re really evoking it, internalizing it, showing it, and then rejecting it. What was that part like? Like, actually owning the gaze of the other for a little bit before rejecting it?
It helped me feel what I’ve just been trying to hold at a distance. By taking it up and allowing myself to view myself as an object, I could see my experience more fully. I could truly take up what I had internalized, and work through it. And then transform it. When you’re holding it at a distance, you’re not working through it. So it was very transformative for me, and there were parts of it that were fun that I really enjoyed. I can’t deny I had so much fun doing the Bad Mom scene. I was laughing as I was thinking about what to do. But something that I didn’t expect was how it would feel taking myself up as a sexual object, as someone else’s fantasy. That was really visceral. That was painful. I judged myself during the filming of that scene. By taking myself up as a sexual object while breastfeeding, I realized I really was judging myself in the same way I was being judged. And that was really painful. At first, you get the notion that it’s the guy that “wants some.” But in acting it out, I realized I was accusing myself of asking him if he “wants some.” So I also got to the fear of being a woman and being sexually assaulted—like someone questioning, “But what were you wearing?” as if you were asking for it. And I didn’t expect all of that. So that last part was terribly painful.
The lived experience that inspired that scene was when I was nursing my daughter in the car before going into a store. I deliberately parked away from everyone, and this guy came out of a restaurant that hadn’t opened yet. He got in the car beside me and when he got there, he just kept staring. He had this lustful look on his face like he was ogling me. And I felt trapped and I felt scared and I just had to get out of there. I feared being violated or maybe assaulted. I was scared not just for me, but for my daughter. And so with her on my lap, I put my car in reverse and drove across the parking lot, which was knowingly dangerous. But I had to escape that situation. It was very scary and very real. And I thought, that’s a part of this too. You know, when you’re exposing a part of yourself that people think should be covered up. And you’re doing so in a very public way, but simply to feed and nourish your child. It’s not easy to look at yourself and see yourself as sexualized and feel that judgment. That was hard. But it also made me mad. So that last part made me angry. I got angry, and that anger helped fuel me to want to do more so that other women don’t feel this.
I’m moved by the pain of what you just said. It reminds me how in therapy, you can be talking about one thing, and not realize how connected it is to so many other kinds of trauma. Going deep into it opens up things you didn’t realize, but also can ultimately help heal those things holistically. And so you’re taking up this phenomenon of breastfeeding in public, but all kinds of sociocultural traumas associated with being a woman in this world are opened up. But it sounds like ultimately that opening up brought you past the self-judgment and to the anger, which was liberatory?
Yes, exactly, for that scene in particular. And comedy sort of helped with the other scenes. I was making it funny, and that was really helpful. That’s what brought me through, the satire. The weirdo scene was about not wanting to be just this milk producer, like a cow hooked up. It was meant to discard the mechanized—like, oh, okay, this is just for production, and milk as a product. So that scene was a rejection of that. But it was really just absurd. It would just be absurd to me. And the bad mom scene—it was the comedy that got me through to the healing place. And then the want some scene—it was the anger.
Can you say more about your use of humor in the film? How is there a healing component to that?
At the time, when I was imagining what the film would look like, I actually didn’t think of it as funny. It was more absurd than funny. But I think that the experience of breastfeeding in public can be so painful that comedy gave me a way to hold that pain but keep going. It made it less serious, less painful. Again, it was that collective “ . . . ** . . . you!” right? So it was like, if you could see this through my experience, this is funny. This is ridiculous. But I never set out for it to be funny. I think that was just my own way of being able to do it. Like an unconscious use of satire. Does that make sense?
When we’re thinking about sociopolitical oppression and your use of humor, it seems what you’re trying to do in the film with the use of humor and the giant “ . . . ** . . . you!” is show just how absurd, but also arbitrary, ridiculous, nonsensical, these prejudices are. You’re laughing in the face of these prejudices which have so much power. I wonder what humor does to dissipate the power of certain types of oppression.
That is exactly what it did. It took the weight of that oppression, and it made it lighter somehow because it’s ridiculous. The film is made to show that ridiculousness here. Like responding in saying, “No! You are the one that’s being ridiculous. Not me. You’re the one that’s putting this stuff on me. These are your thoughts, and now I am laughing at you. Can you see yourself now?” And somehow that made it lighter. It gave me the freedom to be able to do that. Before I didn’t feel that freedom. I didn’t even feel freedom when I was trying to nurse her in public. And so, it gave me the freedom to be able to make this film and do it the way that I felt would help the most people. To show them, to help them be a witness.
You said freedom several times and we haven’t meditated on that word. What gave you the freedom? The humor gave you the freedom?
The humor and the anger gave me the freedom. And the creativity. We can talk about it in terms of the film, but I feel I’m talking about it in a broader sense. After making this film there’s sort of been like this—well, first there was making the film, right? That made me feel slightly more comfortable nursing my daughter in public. Then I analyzed the film as an auto-phenomenological researcher, looking at what I did and why I did it. Because it was pure instinct while making it, I wasn’t thinking critically about what I was doing. But then I looked at it as a researcher and analyzed what I was trying to capture through the film, and this gave me even more freedom to feel more comfortable nursing my baby in public. And then I presented the film to people, to some friends of mine and then at a student conference, and I saw all their reactions to it. A professor of mine, also a mother, was in the room and she was crying because it spoke to her. She’s like, “That is exactly what I feel.” And so that, knowing that that, you know—if this film can make someone feel that way, like maybe I felt like I had an obligation to nurse in public so that other people could feel free to do so. And then that gave me the freedom. So it’s like with each step, I got closer and closer to not feeling inhibited, but rather feeling a duty and obligation to do that.
That’s a very visceral kind of freedom. That also speaks to the next question, which is: what do you find to be potentially psychologically healing for others viewing your film? We mean both personally and collectively as a culture—individual viewers and culture as a whole, what could you find healing about the final product of your film?
In a broad scope, if a lot of people watched it, I feel like I’m trying to change the narrative. In my research, I found a quote that says that “breastfeeding is perceived by many as dirty, sexual, embarrassing, and generally something that should be kept behind closed doors” (Shelton, 1995, p. 179). I want to change that narrative. I want to be a part of a broader communal group of other people who are trying to change that narrative. When I was doing this film, I was looking at women who were protesting the same thing— not being able to breastfeed in public. Because before you would often have to go to the bathroom to breastfeed. It just now, in 2018, became legal in all 50 states for women to be able to breastfeed in public. Before you had to cover up or you had to go to the bathroom. And also workplaces now have to provide a space for that. So prior to that, when I was doing this film, I kept looking at images of women who would do breastfeeding sit-ins—they would just sit down in a public space, and they were all nursing their babies. And that gave me the support that I needed. So maybe this film can be a little piece of that. I saw a photo of a woman who was nursing her baby in public and someone told her to cover up. So she took a baby blanket and put it over her head, which I just thought was hysterical, and I was like “Yes, yes! Free the bah-bahs!” Those women were inspirational for me to keep doing this and also helped me be able to make this film. They were healing for me. Maybe this film can be some little part of that story.
What’s interesting is that your response to my question of what is healing about the film culturally situates it as a form of political activism. Is that what you’re finding?
Yes, thank you. It’s not just sitting idly by. It’s doing something. Because in reality, in each of those lived experiences that inspired the film, I froze; I fell silent. Making this film gave me the opportunity to do in art what I couldn’t do in real life—respond. Through the film, I got to break my silence, talk back, and say, “NO!” and “STOP!” I got to act out a new story, one where I found my voice and was able to protest. Doing so allowed me to finally reject what I was being accused of and let go of the shame. I’m now laughing because I’m thinking of Husserl and how he describes the ‘I can.’ The way you get to that ‘I can’ is I move, I do, I can (Sheets-Johnstone, 2017). And so that goes for freedom, too—being a part of something, that political activism. In order to do it, you have to put the body in motion. Then once you do that, you’re actually doing it. And that’s when you realize that you can, that we can, that I can.
You said, “We can,” and you called it a communal movement that you’re a part of with all these other women. Is that your hope for what is healing about the film? It’s about creating community, showing people they are not alone? The communal aspect seems important for the healing.
Yes. Not just for mothers who want or choose to breastfeed in public, but also for people who judge that. Letting them take a good look at what they’re doing—to have some introspection, to make them question why that’s their bodily reaction. Like, what is it in our cultural narrative that’s causing them to have that judgment? Are they just taking something up? Or is it something that’s coming out of them? Maybe to get more in touch with that and throw those things away.
So healing for culture as a whole involves helping develop self-reflection among those that perpetuate those judgments, and facilitating healing of the wounds of everybody.
Yes. And by taking up the gaze of the other, that could also help give insight into them.
How do you think films can express psychological experience in a manner that’s unique to its medium? This is an interesting question to ask you, particularly because you identify as a psychology doctoral student, a psychologist, and this is your first foray into film. So I wonder what you think about that film to express a psychological experience.
Yeah, it’s that difference between words coming out of your mouth while you’re telling a story and someone is sitting across from you and hearing you—and film, through which you invite them to stand beside you, with you, and see what you’re seeing, experience what you’re experiencing, so that we have the same sort of perspective and we’re both seeing it together. It’s that intersubjectivity—through my eyes and my experience, but it’s inviting them to take it up in a way that they can see, they can feel, they can hear, they can experience. I don’t think that reading a research paper, even if it’s qualitative, often does that in a way that the film can.
So you’re talking about bringing the senses in—hearing, feeling, seeing.
Experiencing, even. You know when you’re watching a movie and someone’s about to get hurt, and you know they’re about to get hurt. We almost take up the character’s experience as ours.
So one part of that question that you’re responding to is how it can help others experience what you experienced through the senses and inviting them into a sensory experience of it. I also wonder, going back to the therapeutic part, what was different for you about writing this up versus creating a film about it? Expressing this experience through the language of film in particular, what’s healing or psychological about that for you?
The difference between filmmaking versus writing a paper about breastfeeding, through whatever sort of inquiry or research method, is that I’m very much in my head. Often I get overwhelmed and it’s too much—what I’m thinking about, what I’m experiencing, what I’m bringing, what it’s bringing up inside of me, bodily, mentally, all of that. It can be almost traumatic. Now, if I were researching something that’s not so close to home, it doesn’t feel that way. But doing it through film, I was allowed this creative freedom and it was liberating. It’s about that freedom again. It was fun. It was healing. It was like the experience was projected out on a screen in front of me. So as I’m imagining it, it’s out in front of me and I’m looking at it rather than being in it. It gave some distance, but not too much distance that I couldn’t touch it. Enough distance so I could know it.
That’s really neat. That’s a technique of Gestalt Therapy, actually. Helping people project their trauma onto an imaginary movie screen, which gives it enough distance to work through it while also making it fun. There’s something about this that allowed for a fun creative energy. I think that’s really beautiful. Thank you for expressing that. Is there anything else that we didn’t ask you that you want to add about this theme of film as a sociocultural therapy?
I do want to talk more about the inspiration for the film scenes that came from my experience with the pump sounds. As I said earlier, if one can understand the words heard in the breast pump as a type of a projective test, you then inquire about the meaning of the words—weirdo, bad mom, and want some, right? I’ve come to believe ‘weirdo’ was inspired by one of the first times I’d ever pumped, and someone was sitting in the room with me. I was like, “Listen, doesn’t that sound like it’s saying, ‘Feed her. Feed her. Feed her?’” And that mantra gave me some confidence. Like you’re really awkward when you’re pumping, right? But my thought without thinking about the gaze of the other was, “feed her, feed her, feed her.” But what the person said to me was, “That’s really interesting that that’s yours, because what I’m hearing it say is, ‘weirdo, weirdo, weirdo.’” And I was like, “That’s because that’s what you’re thinking of me right now!” The inspiration for the first scene came from that.
And for the second scene, where I hear the breast pump making the sound “bad mom, bad mom, bad mom,” that came from a time when we were all at a family function, and I was nursing my daughter. I noticed some of the other mothers started directing their kids to get out of the room while I was nursing, as if I were like, doing something pornographic. And at that point I was like, “Oh my God!” like they actually think their kids might be harmed by seeing me nurse my baby? Shortly after that, we were all sitting outside and one of the little girls started telling me a story about how her cat just had babies. She was like, “I saw the mama cat nursing, and all the kittens were trying to nurse off of her. And I thought about how that must feel and how hard nursing must be. And just then, she just kicked(!) away the kittens.”
And I told her, yeah it feels like that sometimes. And right then her mother responds with, “That’s because she’s a good mother, and she knows when to stop nursing.” So the next time I was pumping, it sounded like it said, “Bad mom, bad mom.” Because the cat was a good mother for not letting her kittens nurse. But I was a bad mother for nursing my baby.
And finally, for the third scene in the film, when I heard the pump making the sound “want some, want some, want some.” That scene was inspired by the experience I described with the gentleman coming up to his car and gawking at me while I was breastfeeding.
I asked if you wanted to add something you think is really important about this idea of film as a sociocultural therapy. Your response is making me think that what feels really important to make clear is how grounded the components of your film are in your direct lived experience. That’s essential to know about the film you created.
Yeah. That leads directly into the idea of hermeneutic phenomenology. The purpose of hermeneutic phenomenological research is to bring forth, illuminate, and then reflect on the meaning of lived experiences—for this particular project, the experience of breastfeeding in public. And that was exactly it. I was able to harness that experience and then its illumination was projected onto a film screen that allowed me to be far enough away to reflect on it in a way that was healing rather than harmful. And the second thing is that it was auto-phenomenological, which engages the researcher’s first-person lived experience. But at the same time, it invites the other to be a witness to that. And I think that’s what I meant by—instead of someone staring at me and looking at me, in watching the film, they are standing beside me, and we’re watching the same thing.
Wow, that’s really beautiful. Bearing witness, which means standing beside you and looking at the same thing. And the power of that to heal.
Then I’m not objectified. Then your gaze is my gaze.
I want to thank you for the film so much. My wife and I, we have two small children. I watched her struggle with a lot of these issues that you talked about. I’m so very happy to go and talk to her about this. So I appreciate that. She also had heard some things that you would hear from the breast pump machine. It was mostly for our first born who is now 3, so 3 years ago—I remember her going through that. You hear this saying coming out of the breast pump because it’s this monotonous sound that played for a really long time for days. And, so she really struggled with that too. Thank you so much for addressing this and talking about it and making a film about it. I really appreciate it.
I don’t like getting teary-eyed here, but . . . yes, thank you for sharing that.
You have to contend with that gaze, is a nice way to put it. People are interfering, they’re touching you. They’re saying things, and it made her mad. Like, just angry. And a little crazy. Like, just wanting to do this thing which she was struggling with anyway. I mean that’s another dimension to this, which is that not every mother is able to breastfeed.
Yes, exactly. Or even wants to. Which is also judged and shamed. But, yeah, it’s a struggle, yes. I struggled hard. The barriers to breastfeeding are very real.
And that was a whole separate thing. On top of struggling to breastfeed, there are people coming around and giving their unsolicited advice and judgment, and it tortured her in the process. So thank you.
That must have been so hard. That word torture, that’s exactly how I felt too. Like breastfeeding was so hard. It was something that we struggled with. And then, once I was doing it, and we were getting over that part, then having that torture from the other. Exactly what you’re talking about, people saying things and judging you. Yes.
And they touch you! This woman touched her. Like what? Strangers come over while you’re sitting and your breast is out . . .
Yes! Or, you know, even adjusting your boob. And that’s even from people who are trying to be helpful.
Yeah. And the stakes feel high because it’s your baby. It’s your baby, and there are strangers interfering! And it’s like, what do I do? Do I just move away from the situation in the case of the guy who was looking at you in the car, just because you want to get out and feel safe again? Or do I stand my ground and kind of push back? So thank you so much. I think this is super important.
Thank you. Just that that’s your thought immediately after is incredibly meaningful to me. And it also feels really validating. Because the thing about phenomenology is this—just to get to the thing itself. So when other people experience it, they say, “Yep, that’s the thing!” And that’s the sort of validation that I just felt—that what I’ve gone through, and what I was trying to make this film about, was also what your wife’s experience was like and what so many breastfeeding mothers have gone through. Thank you for sharing that with me.
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article:
