Motherhood hit me like a freight train—and I’m not even sure I’ve fully recovered. No one really prepares you for just how life-changing, overwhelming, and soul-stretching it can be. This… this was how I became a mother.
Quiet Questions, Loud Heart
Have you ever sat quietly and thought:
- Am I doing right by my kids?
- Will I be proud of what I’m doing today ten years from now?
- Would I change anything if life had handed me a different deck of cards?
These questions aren’t rare. In fact, they echo in the minds of countless mothers every day. I was no different. Only—my answers were buried somewhere between hope and survival.
The Plan That Made Sense—Until It Didn’t
Before kids, I had it all mapped out. I was the planner. The do-it-yourself girl. I was sure I could manage without a nanny. I’d build the baby’s crib and chest of drawers with my own hands. It all felt empowering, even exciting.
I even anticipated the sleepless nights and midnight feedings. It didn’t scare me. I thought love and grit would be enough.
But life had a different script.
A Diagnosis That Changed Everything
It started with three letters: PCOS.
My gynecologist had mentioned it back in high school, but I never really understood what it meant. Not until I found myself month after month, test after test, facing negative results and dashed hopes.
We tried everything—hospitals, fertility specialists, countless prescriptions, and even herbal remedies. Every time we thought this might be the answer, something would fall through. Our savings evaporated. Our hearts grew heavier. And hope started to feel like a cruel joke.
And Then… Two Lines
One morning, I was just a day late—not unusual with PCOS. But desperation doesn’t care about logic. I had pregnancy test kits ready—multiple, actually.
I took one. Two lines.
I took another. Still two lines.
I sat there in silence. Then came the tears—heavy, relieved, joyous tears.
My doctor scheduled a scan. I was barely two weeks in when we saw the flickers of not one—but two babies.
Twins.
Chaos Before the Cradle
You’d think knowing about the twins early on would give us time to prepare. But real life isn’t always Pinterest-perfect.
We were financially drained and could only afford a hospital that accepted basic insurance. It didn’t allow any family or friends to stay overnight—not even after a C-section. Visiting hours were three hours in total, split across the day. That was it.
No help. No breaks.
I had two newborns, one IV line, one arm, and a heart full of anxiety. My daughter refused to breastfeed. My son was wailing. I was drugged, dizzy, and hanging by a thread. Every minute felt like an hour.
When Instinct Speaks Louder Than Reassurance
Both babies had rashes—tiny red patches that seemed to spread by the day. The doctors called it “normal.” They said it would pass. They said newborns couldn’t take medication unless absolutely necessary.
But as their mother, something in me just knew… this wasn’t okay.
My daughter slept so deeply I couldn’t wake her—not even with foot tapping. My son had a dent on the left side of his skull. “Just a soft spot,” they said. But my gut wouldn’t calm.
The Night I’ll Never Forget
It was our third night in the hospital—the last before discharge. Everything fell apart.
My daughter suddenly started choking. Not coughing—choking. I panicked. I rang the bell—no one came. My son was screaming. I was bare from the waist up, weak, freezing, and terrified.
I held my daughter upright because every time I laid her down, she sounded worse. I called my husband—he was too far to help. I called my sister, desperate for advice. She had a newborn too and quickly called the hospital, begging them to send a nurse.
Eventually, someone came. She brushed it off. Said I was overreacting. I didn’t sleep a single second that night. I held my baby upright until morning.
Discharged—But Definitely Not Okay
The doctors told us we were ready to go home. I wanted to believe them. I needed to believe them.
But once home, things unraveled faster than I could manage.
My daughter wouldn’t take the bottle. No matter how we tried—spoon, syringe, nothing worked. She was going hours without feeding.
My son’s rashes had turned into angry, pus-filled sores. He looked like he was in pain. And I felt like I was drowning.
My Body Gave In
The next day, we rushed to the hospital again. My husband and mother-in-law came with me.
As I climbed the stairs to the clinic, my body just—stopped. I froze. I couldn’t move my legs. My words turned into jumbled sounds. I tried signing, gesturing—nothing worked.
I was terrified.
They laid me on a bed. I cried silently, unable to speak, watching the faces of my husband and mother-in-law twist in panic.
A strong painkiller helped me recover. The doctor said I was likely reacting to exhaustion, dehydration, and trauma. I went home with antibiotics for the kids and more meds for myself.
That night, my daughter fed. It felt like a small victory.
Hope… Then More Fear
But the next day, everything changed again.
She began vomiting everything—even small sips. She didn’t wet her diaper for hours. We lived far from any major hospital, and it was raining heavily. I couldn’t leave until morning.
That night, I watched her closely. I was afraid to blink.
Then I woke up—to her cold little body.
Her temperature had dropped below 35.5°C. I tried waking her. Calling her. Tapping her. Nothing.
Five Hours to Safety
We drove five hours straight to reach my niece’s pediatrician. I cradled her limp body the whole way, checking for her heartbeat every few minutes.
She didn’t blink. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move.
At the hospital, she had a dangerously high fever.
Diagnosis: Neonatal Sepsis, at just one week old.
My son, thankfully, was in better shape—he was given meds to boost his immunity.
The Beginning of Healing
She was admitted for five days. This hospital allowed caregivers to stay—thank God. My nanny took the first shifts, then my mom came to relieve her.
During that time, my daughter slowly gained strength. She began to breastfeed—for the very first time. I watched her latch on and cried.
That moment gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.