Once you’ve heard of thrush, trust me — you’ll know it when it finds you.
Feeling the drag of what must be broken glass shards from the top of your breast, downward and heavy through the bottom to the release of letdown? That’s thrush.
The experience of seeming white-hot razor blades slicing round and round your areola in sickening circular motion as baby nurses? That also can be thrush.
Seizing up with dread before every feed, knowing (and sweating bullets over) the least pain that might come, and imagining the worst that could, and that sometimes does come? Well, that too is a hand-walker with thrush.