But wait. Postpartum. That stage was coming again. And this time, it carried even more weight. Toddlers to chase, single motherhood to navigate, grieving through a divorce. This time was supposed to be different—but my mind refused to believe it.
Those thoughts would spiral repeatedly once the reality of divorce sank in. Memories of my first postpartum experience with my daughters came rushing back—the sleepless nights, the relentless anxiety, the constant, all-consuming fear. I could almost hear my inner voice screaming:
“How selfish could I possibly be? Bringing children into the world when I’m so ill-equipped to care for them. Who do I think I am? What have I done to these poor babies? How selfish!”
I can feel it now, as vividly as it happened. Sobbing on the bathroom floor while my twin newborns cried inconsolably, the sounds echoing in my mind in slow motion.
Twin newborns in matching pink baskets
The hospital had sent me home with a paper that casually said, “may experience tearfulness.” Yeah, right. If only they knew. Noah’s Ark could have sailed away on the tears I shed over those first eight weeks. I was alone—my husband working non-stop, our military life placing us far from any family or support system. The tension between us was so high that even the middle-of-the-night screams didn’t wake him. I stopped trying.
Breastfeeding was torture. No comfort for them, no relief for me. The moment they left the breast, their crying resumed. The physical pain was unbearable, the schedule relentless. I was pumping constantly, barely getting twenty minutes between sessions.
Woman breastfeeding twins
“Sleep when the baby sleeps,” they said. How? How is that even possible when screaming is their preferred pastime?
The physical and emotional strain felt insurmountable at times. But then, finally, they would fall asleep in the baby carrier. I would feel their tiny chests rise and fall against mine, hear their gentle snores, and know—I could survive one more day for them. Just one more day.
Around five weeks in, something shifted. I decided to release the impossible mom guilt I had tied to breastfeeding. My girls needed a happy, healthy mama more than anything. I handed them a full bottle of formula—and for the first time, silence. Contentment. Relief. I cried harder than I had in weeks. In that moment, I let go of the world’s expectations, and my own, and decided to show up fully for my daughters, however that looked.
From the start, the news of twins had been thrilling. No, twins didn’t run in our family, and yes, conception was natural. Shocked? Absolutely. Overwhelmed? Never. I was ready for this new adventure. I threw myself into preparation—finding a doula, researching hospitals, attending 12-week intensive natural birthing classes, breastfeeding workshops, reading everything I could get my hands on. I felt prepared for every twist and turn.
Yet the reality of a twin pregnancy is unpredictable. My OB insisted on inducing at 36 weeks, citing growth concerns for Baby A. I held out, attempting every natural method possible. After two failed rounds of Pitocin, an artificial rupture of membranes, and my pleading for an epidural, my daughters were finally born vaginally, 18 minutes apart, at 37 weeks exactly.
Twins in matching carriers, with mom and dad
Even with all my preparation, nothing could have readied me for the postpartum storm. It’s isolating. Terrifying. Overwhelming. The more these experiences are spoken about openly, the less lonely they feel.
I didn’t develop full postpartum depression, but those first two months were some of the darkest of my life. Yet I survived. Stronger, wiser, more resilient. And now, at 38 weeks pregnant with a baby boy, with my twin girls approaching 2.5 years old, I can see the magic in every stage of motherhood—even when toddler tantrums evoke memories of newborn chaos.
A lot has changed since that pivotal moment with the formula bottle. I experienced a personal awakening that transformed my life. Amid marital tension, late nights with Pinot Grigio in hand, and growing anxiety, I realized I had to prioritize myself. I embraced sobriety, veganism, holistic living, and even ran my first 5K—a feat that had once felt impossible.
Mom and her twins having a picnic
I discovered essential oils, low-tox living, and started a business—all while my twin infants clung to my legs. I reconnected spiritually, and embraced the full 180-degree change in my life. Yet, despite all the growth, my marriage could not survive. At six months pregnant, after relocating across the country, my husband announced he wanted a divorce. No negotiation. No discussion. Just finality.
Woman in lake with young twin daughters
Devastated barely scratches the surface of my feelings—confusion, anger, resentment, disappointment, numbness. But even through grief and uncertainty, I see the divine timing. We are learning co-parenting, navigating challenges, and slowly finding a rhythm that works. And somehow, I feel even more ready to welcome this little boy into our world.
Mom with two young twin daughters in lake
Motherhood has reshaped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It starts with putting myself first—physically, mentally, and emotionally—so I can show up fully for my children. Yes, I lose my patience. Yes, Cocomelon is sometimes on more than I’d like. But every day, I invest in myself first, and my life feels joyful despite the chaos.
The most important lesson I’ve learned? We must fill our own cups first. Only then can we pour love and energy into our children, our families, and the world. Wake up. Fill your cup—whatever that looks like—and show up as the best version of yourself. You deserve it. Your family deserves it. The world deserves it.
