1. Introduction
A mother loses her baby — through stillbirth, through a death in those first fragile weeks of life, through a late miscarriage that arrives without warning — and then, days later, her body seems not to have gotten the message. Milk comes in anyway. It is one of the strangers and more overlooked cruelties of perinatal loss, and it is worth sitting with for a moment before diving into the research itself.
Perinatal bereavement is, by any measure, common — far more common than most people outside of clinical or personal experience with it tend to realize. Estimates suggest it touches as many as 30% of pregnancies worldwide, translating to something on the order of 6.3 million deaths a year (though numbers like these, drawn from imperfect global reporting, should probably be read as approximate rather than exact). What these figures cannot really capture, though, is the interior experience: the unmaking of an identity a woman had already begun to inhabit, the abrupt cancellation of a role she'd been rehearsing for months, sometimes years. Badenhorst and Hughes (2007) describe this dimension of the loss in psychological terms, and the numbers that follow from it are sobering — bereaved mothers face rates of depression roughly four times higher than mothers who have not experienced such a loss, and something like one in five continue to show clinically significant depression, anxiety, or post-traumatic stress a full year or more afterward (Gold et al., 2016; Blackmore et al., 2011).
Grief of this kind is disorienting enough on its own terms. But then there is the body, which does not pause to ask whether there is a baby to feed. Lactation, triggered physiologically by birth or by pregnancy loss in later trimesters, proceeds regardless — nature apparently uninterested in the absence it is responding to. For many bereaved mothers, this becomes a kind of daily, insistent reminder: engorgement, leaking, the ordinary discomforts of new motherhood arriving without its intended recipient (Chen et al., 2015; Cole, 2012). It is hard to imagine a crueler biological irony, and yet healthcare systems, by and large, have been slow to reckon with it.
Part of the problem seems to be simple unpreparedness. Mothers are frequently blindsided by the physical reality of milk "coming in," with little or no warning from clinicians beforehand (Sweeney et al., 2020). Left unmanaged, this can spiral into real medical complications — mastitis, breast abscesses, sometimes hospitalization (Carroll et al., 2014). And beyond the physical risk, there is a quieter cost: the sense, often unspoken but keenly felt, that no one prepared you for this, that your grief and your body were both left to fend for themselves.
What tends to happen next, clinically speaking, is suppression. Pharmacological lactation suppression is, by most accounts, the default recommendation offered to mothers without a living infant — and for some women, it genuinely is the right choice. But its near-total dominance in medical practice may say less about what mothers actually need and more about a cultural discomfort with lactation that falls outside the conventional mother-infant pairing; milk without a baby to receive it seems to register, in clinical and cultural imagination alike, as something faintly transgressive, "matter out of place," in Garrod and Pascal's (2019) phrase. That framing, understandably, tends to crowd out other possibilities — milk donation chief among them.
And yet donation, where it has been studied, tells a rather different story. For a meaningful subset of bereaved mothers, expressing and donating milk appears to function as something genuinely reparative — a way of reclaiming a maternal role that loss had seemingly foreclosed, of directing grief outward into an act of generosity rather than letting it curdle inward (Oreg, 2019; Welborn, 2012; Ward et al., 2023). It is not a solution for everyone, nor should it be presented as one. But for those it fits, it seems to offer something suppression cannot: a way of staying connected to the baby who died, rather than severing that connection as quickly as possible.
This idea — staying connected rather than moving on — sits at the heart of the Continuing Bonds Theory developed by Klass, Silverman, and Nickman (1996), which reframed healthy grieving away from the older, detachment-oriented models and toward the maintenance of an ongoing bond with the person who died. Framed this way, milk donation becomes more than a medical decision; it becomes a tangible, almost ritual act of honoring a baby's existence, transforming loss into a gift for other infants who need it. A related framework, Stroebe and Schut's (1999) Dual Process Model of Coping, offers a complementary lens — one in which bereaved parents move back and forth between loss-oriented grief (the yearning, the raw pain) and restoration-oriented coping (the slow work of building a new life around the absence). Within that model, decisions about lactation — whether toward weaning or toward donation — start to look less like incidental medical choices and more like meaningful sites of identity reconstruction (Neimeyer, 2001).
Of course, none of this happens in a vacuum, and access to these options is far from equal. Online health information for bereaved parents tends to be scattered, incomplete, and difficult to piece together into anything resembling a coherent guide (Sweeney et al., 2020). Clinicians, for their part, often lack the training — or perhaps simply the confidence — to raise these topics sensitively with grieving families, and that silence can itself be read by parents as a failure to acknowledge their baby's life and their own grief (Lang et al., 2011; Kavanaugh et al., 2004). Fathers, meanwhile, are too often left out of the picture almost entirely, their grief marginalized or simply unaddressed within neonatal and maternity care settings (Obst & Due, 2019).
Taken together, these threads point toward something that has not yet been done: a systematic, quantitative synthesis of the health, psychosocial, and care-related outcomes tied to lactation after infant loss. Understanding how physical recovery and psychological healing intersect in this specific, under-examined space seems essential to building trauma-informed, genuinely person-centered models of bereavement care — models that can hold space for the full range of what bereaved families actually need, rather than defaulting to the one option that happens to be easiest to prescribe.

