Overwhelmed by Triplets, We Considered a Difficult Choice

When we first found out we were expecting triplets, we were filled with joy, overwhelmed by the thought of three little lives growing inside me. But no one tells you about the exhaustion. No one warns you about the frustration, the loneliness, or the overwhelming fear that you might not be enough.

The photo-perfect images of triplets in matching outfits, the proud parents standing together, those beautiful moments you see on Instagram, never quite capture the reality. For every smile, there’s a tear. For every happy moment, there are a thousand more that are filled with exhaustion and uncertainty. And that's where we found ourselves—not in the joy of having three children, but in the never-ending task of simply surviving it.

It was a night like any other when the weight of it all came crashing down on me. 2:40 a.m., the time etched into my memory. I sat in the nursery, one baby cradled in my arms, desperately trying to comfort her, while the other two wailed in their cribs. The familiar sounds of crying, the harsh realization that my arms could only hold one at a time, made the task of soothing them feel impossible.

“Why is this so hard?” I whispered to myself, my voice breaking.

Across the room, I could hear my husband, James, pacing. His steps were heavy, filled with frustration and exhaustion. He didn’t speak, just shuffled from one crib to the next, switching babies with robotic efficiency. His face was a mask of fatigue, his eyes hollow from the sleepless nights that had accumulated over weeks.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he finally muttered, sitting down beside me. The words felt like a weight in the air between us.

I turned my head to face him, but all I could manage was a sigh. “I know.”

We were both tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. We had no idea what we were doing. Three babies. We were supposed to be ready for this, but we weren’t. Not really.

“I love them,” he continued, “but I’m losing myself, losing us.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wanted to reassure him, tell him that everything would be okay, that we’d make it through this. But how could I say that when I didn’t believe it myself?

The next morning, the house was quiet, eerily so. The babies were asleep, and for the first time in weeks, there was no crying to be heard. James had left early for work, needing a break from the chaos that had consumed our lives. I walked into the kitchen, the smell of stale coffee hanging in the air.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the counter. The dishes from last night’s dinner had gone unwashed. I didn’t have the energy to clean them. And for the first time, I realized just how much I resented the fact that I had to do everything on my own.

I wanted to call my mom. I wanted to tell her how badly I was struggling, how I was slowly losing myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t show weakness, not now, not after all the sacrifices I had made to get here. I couldn’t burden her with this when she already had her own life to manage.

But that day, I made a decision. I couldn’t go on like this. I couldn’t do it all alone. I had to talk to James. I had to admit that I needed help.

When he came home later that evening, I waited for him in the living room. The twins were asleep, and the third was playing quietly in her crib. It felt like the calm before the storm.

“We need to talk,” I said, my voice trembling.

James sat down across from me, his eyes weary but attentive.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said, the tears threatening to fall. “I love them, but I’m suffocating. I can’t breathe, James. I feel like I’m losing myself, and I need help. I need us to do this together, but it feels like we’re drowning.”

James sat in silence for a moment, his face blank, before his expression softened. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling the same way. I love them too, but I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

The vulnerability in his voice surprised me. James was always the strong one, the one who held it all together, but now I saw the cracks in his armor. We were both drowning, but we hadn’t been able to admit it to each other.

“I’m scared,” I confessed. “I’m scared I’m failing them.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. “We’re not failing them, but we’re failing ourselves. We need help.”

That night, we made a decision. We couldn’t do this on our own anymore. We reached out to family, to friends, and to professionals. I called a counselor who specialized in post-partum depression and multiple births. We needed a plan, and we needed it now.

Over the next few weeks, we made small changes. James and I took turns getting sleep, we hired a part-time nanny to help with the babies, and we started attending therapy together. It wasn’t a magic fix, but it was a step in the right direction.

But the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, still lingered. I had the love of my children, but I also had a sense of failure. I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe I had made the wrong choice—that maybe this was too much for us.

One night, while James was out, I sat alone in the living room, holding one of the babies in my arms. I stared at the photo of our family, all smiles and perfect moments. We were supposed to be happy, right? But in that moment, I realized how much I had lost myself in this journey.

The door opened, and James stepped inside. I didn’t have to say anything. He could see the sadness in my eyes.

“I know,” he whispered, sitting beside me. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. We’re going to get through this. Together.”

And in that moment, I realized that we weren’t alone. The love was still there, buried under the exhaustion, but it was still there. We had our moments of despair, but we had each other.

“I’m scared,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not giving up on us.”

“Neither am I,” he replied. “We’re in this together.”

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe again.

The days became easier after that. We learned to share the responsibilities, to reach out for help, and to accept that it was okay to ask for support. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was ours. And with time, we found our rhythm again.

The babies grew, as babies do, and so did we. I found pieces of myself that I had long forgotten, buried beneath the weight of motherhood. I started to feel like me again—not just a mother, but a woman with her own identity.

And in the end, I realized something important: I didn’t have to do this alone. I didn’t have to be perfect. I just had to keep going, with the people I loved beside me.

We weren’t just surviving anymore. We were living.

And that, I realized, was enough.