Nobody prepares you for this part.
They show you the matching outfits. The adorable monthly milestone photos. The sweet chaos of three tiny miracles bundled up like storybook perfection.
But they don’t tell you what it’s like when you’ve been up for five straight nights, when all three babies are screaming at once, and your body feels like it might collapse from pure exhaustion.
I love my babies. God, I love them more than I ever thought I could love anything.
But some nights—when the clock blinks 2:47 a.m. and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling one baby while the other two wail—I wonder if we made a horrible mistake.
We weren’t ready for this. Not emotionally. Not financially. We barely scraped by with one, and now we have three.
And my husband—the man I married because he made me feel safe—he flinches now when the bottle warmer beeps. We barely speak. Not because we don’t love each other, but because the exhaustion is so suffocating there aren’t even words left.
The guilt is constant. The fear is constant. The shame is constant.
And then, in the middle of one especially brutal night, a thought crept in that gutted me: What if we gave one up for adoption?
Even typing those words makes me feel like a monster.
But when you’re drowning, when your love for your children feels powerless against the crushing weight of survival, your mind goes places you never thought it could.
I whispered it once, just once, into the darkness while rocking one of the babies: “Maybe they’d be better off.”
I never told anyone. Not until my husband sat beside me a few nights later, held my hand, and whispered, “I don’t know how much longer we can do this.”
And then he said it too. The thing I couldn’t say out loud. The thing that felt like betrayal.
We cried.
We cried because we loved them so much.
We cried because we were so tired.
We cried because we didn’t want to give up—but we didn’t know how to keep going.
And then something unexpected happened. My sister-in-law called. She and her husband had been trying for years to have a child. They offered—gently, lovingly—to adopt one of the babies if we truly felt we couldn’t keep going.
I can’t even describe the emotions that rushed through me. Relief. Grief. Guilt. Hope. Despair.
But then she said something that changed everything:
“Before you make this decision, talk to this family counselor. She works with parents like you. There may be other options.”
We did. And that’s when we learned there was help.
Real help.
Financial support, counseling, community resources specifically for overwhelmed families with multiples. Things we never knew existed because we were too deep in the storm to even ask.
We didn’t have to give up one of our babies.
We just had to let go of the idea that we had to survive this alone.
We reached out. We accepted the help. We let others carry us when we couldn’t carry ourselves.
And little by little, we started breathing again.
We’re still tired. We’re still learning. But we’re here. Together. All five of us.
If you take anything from my story, please let it be this:
You are not weak for needing help.
You are not a failure for reaching your limit.
You are not a bad parent for having dark thoughts when you’re drowning.
You’re human.
And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is to raise your hand and say: I can’t do this alone. Please help me.
If you know someone who’s struggling, share this. Let them know they aren’t alone. The world needs more honesty like this—and more grace for parents who are doing their very best.
