I was so focused on giving birth that I barely gave breastfeeding a thought—until my baby surprised us all by arriving five weeks early. Suddenly, feeding wasn’t just a beautiful bonding moment; it became a full-blown crisis I wasn’t prepared for.

As I fumbled to help my tiny newborn latch, my heart sank with every failed attempt. The dreaded alternative loomed: pumping. Every three hours. Like clockwork. Or whenever my baby allowed. I wasn’t just tired—I was on a treadmill of anxiety. Was I pumping often enough? Was I missing the magic window and ruining my milk supply? Was I failing before I’d even begun?

Sleep felt like a cruel joke. Even when I had the chance to rest, I lay awake, haunted by the fear that my supply would dry up. That I wouldn’t have enough for the next feeding.

Then, one night, as I sat bleary-eyed and hooked up to the pump yet again, a story floated back to me—the Israelites and their daily manna. They had just enough for each day. Not enough for tomorrow. No stash. No freezer bags. Just enough.

And that’s when it hit me: I’m not a slave, though I sure feel like one sometimes—tethered to this machine, watching ounces drip like hope in slow motion. But even in this wilderness, God is still providing. Maybe not a milk stash. Maybe not eight hours of sleep. But just enough for this feeding. Just enough for this moment.

Yes, I’d love a full freezer and predictable rhythms. But right now, I’m learning to trust in daily provision. Just like manna. Just enough for today. And maybe that’s the kind of faith-building I need even more than a stash.