When I started working as a postpartum care specialist, I thought my job was to give advice. I had training, experience, and a binder full of handouts about feeding positions, sleep shaping, and recovery protocols. I thought if I just explained things clearly enough, new mothers would feel better.
Eight years and dozens of families later, I've learned that much of what passes for postpartum advice is not actually helpful. Some of it is well-meaning but wrong. Some of it is outdated. And some of it is actively harmful — not because the people giving it are cruel, but because they've confused tradition with truth.
This post is about the postpartum advice I still disagree with after all these years. Not because I want to be contrarian, but because I've seen too many mothers suffer under the weight of bad guidance. If you're a new mom, or about to become one, I hope this gives you permission to question what you've been told.
"You Shouldn't Hold the Baby Too Much or You'll Spoil Them"
This might be the piece of advice I've heard repeated more than any other, and it's the one I disagree with most strongly. It usually comes from a well-meaning relative, delivered with a knowing nod: "You don't want to spoil that baby. Put them down sometimes."
Here's what I know from eight years of watching real families: you cannot spoil a newborn. The concept of "spoiling" requires a level of cognitive development that a newborn simply doesn't have. Newborns don't think, "If I cry, they'll come, so I'll cry more." They cry because they have a need — hunger, discomfort, overstimulation, or just the deep, primal need to be close to the person they know by smell and heartbeat.
When you respond to a newborn's cries by holding them, you're not spoiling them. You're teaching them something foundational: that the world is a place where their needs are met. That someone is there. That they are safe. That lesson becomes the foundation for every future skill they'll ever learn, including the ability to self-soothe later.
I've held babies for hours while their mothers slept, and I've watched those same babies grow into secure, independent toddlers. The children who were held the most in those early weeks are not the ones who struggle with independence later. If anything, they're the ones who feel safe enough to explore, because they trust that someone will be there when they come back.
So when someone tells you to put the baby down to avoid spoiling them, you can smile and nod and then pick up your baby anyway. The science — and the lived experience of thousands of mothers — is on your side.
"You Should Be Back to Normal by Six Weeks"
The six-week checkup has become this arbitrary finish line in American postpartum culture. Six weeks is when many mothers are cleared for exercise, sex, and "returning to normal life." The implication is that after six weeks, the recovery is done and you should be back to your old self.
Here's the truth: six weeks is the beginning of recovery, not the end. At six weeks, your uterus may have shrunk back to its pre-pregnancy size, but your pelvic floor is still healing. Your abdominal muscles are still reconnecting. Your hormones are still shifting. Your body has gone through a massive physical transformation, and six weeks is barely enough time for the most acute healing, let alone full recovery.
I've worked with mothers who were still bleeding at eight weeks. Mothers whose C-section incisions took three months to feel comfortable. Mothers who couldn't walk around the block without exhaustion at ten weeks. None of them were "behind." They were all within the normal, wide range of postpartum recovery.
The problem with the six-week myth is that it makes mothers feel like failures when they're not "back to normal" on schedule. They push themselves too hard, or they feel ashamed of their own bodies for healing at their own pace. The truth is, postpartum recovery is measured in months, not weeks. And for some mothers, it's measured in years.
"You Should Accept Help When It's Offered"
This advice sounds good on the surface. "Let people help you!" It's generous and community-minded. But here's what I've learned from watching it play out in real homes: not all help is helpful.
Some help comes with strings. Some help comes with judgment. Some help creates more work than it saves. The aunt who comes to "help" but spends the whole time criticizing your parenting choices. The friend who offers to watch the baby but then expects you to entertain her while she does. The relative who insists on helping with laundry but then reorganizes your entire system in a way that makes everything harder.
I've watched too many new mothers accept "help" that left them feeling depleted, judged, and more stressed than before. Then they felt guilty for not being grateful, which added another layer of emotional weight to an already heavy load.
Here's what I tell mothers now: you are allowed to be selective about help. Accept the help that actually helps — the friend who drops off food and leaves, the relative who folds laundry without commentary, the partner who takes the baby for two hours so you can sleep. Decline the help that costs you more than it gives. You don't owe anyone your gratitude for making your life harder.
"Breast Is Best"
This is the most emotionally charged piece of advice in the entire postpartum world, and it has caused more tears than any other. The campaign to promote breastfeeding has been so successful that many mothers now believe formula is a failure — and that feeding their baby anything other than breast milk is a moral failing.
I want to be careful here, because breastfeeding is wonderful and beneficial in many ways. But the truth is more complicated than the slogan suggests. Breastfeeding doesn't work for every mother and every baby, and the pressure to make it work can come at a devastating cost.
I've sat with mothers who were sobbing through every feeding, their nipples cracked and bleeding, their babies losing weight, their mental health crumbling — all because they were terrified that formula would ruin their child. I've watched mothers develop postpartum anxiety and depression because they believed they were failing their babies every time they struggled to latch. I've held mothers in the kitchen at 2 a.m. while they pumped tiny amounts of milk and cried because their bodies wouldn't produce enough, no matter how hard they tried.
What I want every new mother to know is this: fed is best. A baby who is fed, whether by breast or bottle, is a baby who can thrive. A mother who is mentally well enough to care for her baby, whether she's breastfeeding or formula feeding, is a mother who is doing it right. The method of feeding matters far less than the love and consistency behind it.
I'm not anti-breastfeeding. I'm anti-guilt. And the "breast is best" campaign has generated more guilt than almost any other single piece of postpartum messaging.
"You'll Know What to Do Instinctively"
There's a romantic idea that motherhood comes with a built-in manual — that the moment you hold your baby, some ancient instinct will take over and you'll just know what to do. Here's what really happens for most mothers: you hold your baby, and you feel love so intense it scares you, and you have absolutely no idea what to do next.
The instinct myth sets mothers up for a painful fall. When the "instinct" doesn't kick in — when you don't automatically know why the baby is crying, or how to get them to sleep, or what that rash is — you think something is wrong with you. You think you're missing the thing that makes you a real mother.
The truth is, almost nothing about motherhood is instinctive. Feeding positions, sleep schedules, diaper rash prevention, calming techniques — these are learned skills. They require practice, guidance, trial and error. The only instinct that comes built-in is the desire to care for your baby. The rest you learn as you go, just like every other mother in history.
When I see a new mother struggling with uncertainty, I tell her: "You're not supposed to know this yet. You're supposed to be learning it." That's not a flaw. That's the process.
What I Say Instead
After eight years of watching bad advice hurt good mothers, I've learned to replace it with something different. Here's what I say now.
You Are the Expert on Your Own Baby
No book, no grandparent, no well-meaning friend knows your baby better than you do. The advice you receive is just information. You get to filter it through what you know about your child. Trust that knowledge, even when it's quiet.
The Only Thing Your Baby Needs Is You, Trying Your Best
That's it. Not perfection. Not a specific feeding method or sleep schedule or parenting philosophy. Just you, showing up, doing the best you can with what you have. That's enough, even on the days it doesn't feel like it.
If It's Working for Your Family, It's Working
There's no universal right way to do this. There's only what's right for you and your baby. If the routine looks different from your neighbor's, that's not a failure. That's a family.
This Is Hard Because It's Hard, Not Because You're Bad at It
I've said this in previous posts, and I'll say it every time. The struggle is the experience, not a reflection of your worth. Let the difficulty be what it is, without adding guilt on top of it.
A Final Word From Someone Who's Seen Too Much
I've watched mothers sit on their own bathroom floors and cry because they were convinced they were failing. I've held their hands while they confessed the things they were too ashamed to say out loud. I've seen the damage that bad advice does — not because the advice-givers are cruel, but because the advice itself is built on a foundation of perfection that no mother can reach.
The postpartum period is not a test you can pass. It's not a set of milestones you need to hit. It's a season of becoming — becoming a mother, becoming a family, becoming someone new. That process is messy and slow and full of moments that don't look anything like the books said they would.
If you take one thing from this post, let it be this: you are allowed to disagree with the advice. You are allowed to trust yourself. You are allowed to do what works for your family, even if it doesn't match what everyone else is doing. The voice that matters most is not the expert's, not the grandmother's, not the internet's. It's yours.
You do not need a perfect system. You need one that works at 3 a.m. And that system starts with this: trust yourself more than the advice.
Start with the part that makes tonight easier. Even if that part is just putting down the book and picking up your baby.
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