Deep inside, I always knew that motherhood was meant to be a part of my life.
In school, I was taught that even looking at a boy the wrong way would result in pregnancy, so I never imagined that conceiving when I actually wanted to would be such a struggle. After more than five years of trying, two miscarriages, and all the non-invasive fertility testing my insurance would cover, we still had no answers.
My OBGYN finally suggested trying three rounds of Clomid before referring us to a fertility clinic. At that point, my husband and I weren’t sure how far we were willing to go. We knew IVF wasn’t an option. If Clomid didn’t work, we had come to terms with the idea that we might simply continue on as DINKs—dual income, no kids.
Clomid is a medication that helps trigger ovulation, and although it raises the chance of having twins from about 1% to 7%, I never imagined I’d be one of them. Turns out, I was in that 7%.
I found out early, and I couldn’t hold it in long enough to stage a cute announcement. I blurted it out to my husband with all the tears and excitement I’d been holding in for years. Not long after, at my first scan, we got the shock of a lifetime: not one heartbeat, but two. The sound of those tiny thumps filled the room and changed everything.
After so many years of waiting, I thought I was ready. I had attended countless baby showers, building practical gift baskets with items people actually needed. I was like the character from 27 Dresses but instead of weddings, I was the professional baby shower guest longing for my turn. Now, finally, it was here.
Pregnancy, however, was no picnic. Morning sickness, fatigue, night sweats, and a belly stretched beyond imagination left me far from the glowing mama I expected to be. But every little kick made it worth it. Because it was a twin pregnancy and considered high-risk, I got to see my boys often through extra scans. By the end, I was in doctor’s offices several times a week.
Despite my small frame, I carried them to 38 weeks and delivered both healthy boys by scheduled C-section. Each weighed over six poundsp, roof that sometimes doctors don’t know everything.
Motherhood came at me fast. From day one, I was outnumbered. When both babies cried, I had to make what felt like impossible choices, and the guilt nearly broke me. I slipped into postpartum depression, hiding behind perfectly curated social media posts while privately crying in the dark nursery because I couldn’t soothe them.
Most of my anxiety focused on breastfeeding. We’d been supplementing with formula from the beginning on our pediatrician’s advice, but I resented it. I obsessed over ways to increase my supply, oatmeal, supplements, sports drinks, constant pumping, meticulous logging of every ounce. I convinced myself that if I couldn’t exclusively breastfeed or get my boys to sleep well, I wasn’t a good mom.
Therapy helped some, but the advice I got, “sleep more” and “take time for yourself”—felt impossible when I was caring for newborn twins in the middle of a pandemic. Still, as the boys grew, things got easier. Around seven months, they finally started sleeping through the night, and with that rest came clarity. I found my footing and built a routine that worked for us.
Having structure was a lifesaver. The boys napped together, ate together, and I finally had moments to breathe. We went on long stroller walks, exploring new routes around the neighborhood, and slowly, I began to enjoy motherhood in the way I had always dreamed.
Once pandemic restrictions lifted, we started venturing out more as a family. Taking twins in public was an experience of its own. Strangers always stopped us with comments like, “Double trouble!” or “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.” My favorite eye-roll moment was when someone asked, “Boy and girl?” despite both being dressed clearly as boys. Still, people meant well, and they weren’t wrong about one thing: my boys were adorable.
When they turned one, I converted a room in our house into a playroom, channeling my energy into creative projects. At eighteen months, we enrolled them in a Montessori program a few mornings a week. They had spent their entire lives in a pandemic bubble, and I wanted them to have new experiences and I needed space to rediscover myself.
The downtime felt strange at first. I was so used to being in constant mom mode that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I took on part-time work as a technical writer and even experimented with social media marketing, but neither turned out to be the right path for me.
Then I went back to something I had loved since childhood: writing.
I started a blog, pouring out my experiences as a twin mom, the messy truths, the small victories, the hard lessons. Writing became my therapy, my outlet, my way of connecting with others.
These days, when someone asks me, “How do moms of twins manage it?”
the truth is, we don’t really know. We just do it because we must.
And somehow, we survive.
