Postpartum With Twins: It’s a Whole Different Ball Game
Recovering after carrying two babies is physically and emotionally intense. From a healing body to an overwhelmed mind, I share the parts no one warned me about—from postpartum weight to mental shifts.
A Double Blessing—and a Silent Struggle
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. I prayed for them for the longest time. I remember begging God to just make me a mom. And when He finally answered… He doubled the blessing.
Twins.
A boy and a girl. A perfect pair.
But no one tells you what happens after the blessing.
Not in the group chats. Not during baby showers. And definitely not in those shiny parenting blogs with their checklists and diaper bag guides. None of them prepare you for the silent battles that come after birth.
No one talks about the emotional unraveling.
Between the sleepless nights, unexpected financial strain, and my partner having to work longer hours than he was at home, just to keep us afloat, I felt like I was unraveling. I longed for someone—anyone—to help with the endless chores. Someone to hold the babies just so I could sleep for an hour. Just one hour. That felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Life wasn’t giving me lemons. It was handing me fire. And I had no gloves, no shield, no break.
The Days That Broke Me: Colic, Exhaustion, and Dark Thoughts
There were days the babies cried nonstop. Not one after the other, both of them, together. Hours on end. And no matter what I tried, nothing would soothe them.
Both of my babies had colic. The kind of colic that no amount of rocking, bouncing, or walking could soothe. I tried every brand of colic drops I could afford. Nothing worked. The crying would go on for hours, piercing and relentless, until I didn’t know whether it was their screams I was hearing or just the echo of my own breaking spirit.
There were nights I held one baby in my arms and the other against my chest, walking circles in our tiny house, praying, just begging for a moment of peace. But the screams never stopped. And the exhaustion kept piling on.
On those days, I honestly felt like vanishing. I remember thinking, maybe if I weren’t here, this would all stop. Maybe they’d be better off.
It scared me to have those thoughts. But they felt real. Heavy. Constant.
Trying to Get Help: A Lonely Search for Support
I looked online for help. Articles about postpartum depression. Mental health blogs. Anything that could make me feel less alone. Anything that could guide me. I couldn’t afford a therapist, so I hoped I’d find something—anything—helpful.
But there was nothing. Or at least nothing that reached me in the way I needed. No real-time support. No listening ears. Just dead ends and empty forums. I remember switching off my phone one night and sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
No one seemed to understand what it was like.
Breastfeeding Pain and Pretending I Was Okay
Breastfeeding was another nightmare. It was so painful. I tried nipple creams, adjusting latches, breathing through the pain—nothing helped. Each feeding felt like fire running through my chest. I’d bite down on whatever I could find, just to keep from screaming. Sometimes I would scream, and the babies would start crying… It felt too much.
And still, I had to smile when someone visited. Had to answer calls with, “We’re doing great. Everything is okay.”
But we weren’t.
I wasn’t.
No Sleep, No Help, and the Constant Fear of Failing
You know the phrase, “Sleep when the baby sleeps”? Cruel joke.
My daughter would wake up before dawn and barely nap during the day. My son? He stayed up all night and slept most of the day. There was no overlap. No rest. My only window came between 4 am and 6 am—when he finally drifted off and before she started her day.
I tried every sleep trick out there. Schedules. White noise. Routines. Swaddles. But nothing worked. Nothing synced.
Some days, I forgot to eat. Most days, I barely bathed. And on the worst days, I’d just cry quietly while holding one twin on my chest and rocking the other with my foot.
Everything hurt. My body, my brain, my heart.
A kind neighbor would sometimes help hold one baby while I unpinned clothes from the line. Just the smallest help felt like a miracle.
But when she wasn’t around, I did everything myself. I’d strap one baby to my back and carry the other on my front just to prepare food or step outside for the sun. I’d walk down flights of slippery stairs with that precious weight on me, terrified of falling. Terrified of failing.
The Fog That Wouldn’t Lift: Postpartum Depression and Anxiety
At first, I told myself it was just exhaustion.
“Of course I’m tired. Everyone says new moms are tired.”
But the fog didn’t lift.
I wasn’t just tired. I was numb. Hollow. There were times I’d just stare at the wall after putting the babies down, not knowing what to do next because everything felt like too much.
And the guilt? That was the worst.
I loved my children. So why did I feel so low? Why did I dread the next morning before the sun had even set?
I now know I wasn’t just “being dramatic.” I was experiencing postpartum anxiety—and at times, depression.
But I didn’t have the language for it then. I just thought I was a bad mom. A failure.
What Helped Me Start Healing
The moment things started to shift was when I allowed myself to whisper it:
“I’m not okay. I need help.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t pretty. But it was honest.
From there, I began clawing back pieces of myself. Asking for help from my partner, even if he was exhausted too. Letting family step in where they could. Finding comfort in a friend who once confessed, “Me too.”
I’m still on the journey. Still learning to take breaks. Still catching myself in old patterns of “do it all.”
But I now believe this:
Mental health is part of motherhood, not separate from it.
We don’t stop being human just because we became mothers.
To the Mom Who’s in That Place Right Now
If this sounds like your life right now…
If you’re crying at night, and no one seems to hear you…
If you’re scrolling articles hoping for one voice to reach through the screen and say, “I get it”—let this be that voice.
You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not a bad mom.
You’re tired. You’re hurting. And you’re doing more than anyone can see.
Please don’t carry it alone.
Even whispering “me too” is a powerful beginning.