Motherhood Unfiltered: Becoming A First-Time Mum With Premature Twins

A raw, honest take on first-time motherhood — sleepless nights, premature twins, societal pressures and all.

As I was immersed into the bewildering chaos of becoming a mum for the first time, punctuated by relentless sleepless nights of the first few months, I grappled with the disorienting feeling that I’d lost myself. As if birthing premature twins wasn’t already daunting, I navigated a cascade of unforeseen challenges, carrying the weight of unspoken expectations.

Nothing prepares you for the fourth trimester. I often refer to those undignified months as the ‘dark days’ marked by night sweats, adult nappies, hair loss and a host of other unsavoury post-natal symptoms, while wrestling with the task of keeping a newborn (or in my case, two) alive. I reflect on those days with no fondness.

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The Shock Of Early Motherhood

I was thrust into motherhood seven weeks early, 33 weeks pregnant with twin boys when my waters broke. My first confession is that I was completely unprepared to become a mother. I adopted a very laissez-faire approach, attended no classes and read no books to prepare myself. When my waters broke, I am embarrassed to admit that I didn’t even realise what was happening; I thought I had simply lost control of my bladder. As the continuous trickle persisted, I found myself, in a moment of desperation, asking my (by then, understandably impatient) husband, “Could you please just smell my knickers?” I must quickly add that he absolutely refused.

After a restless night, I underwent an emergency C-section. My next confession is that I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, as the mere thought of vaginal delivery made my skin crawl. While I was in recovery, my newborns were immediately taken to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). During this time, a rather insistent nurse massaged my breasts to express what she called “liquid gold.” When I share this experience, many are shocked that I was not given the chance to hold my babies. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of one of them—so brief, in fact, that I couldn’t describe his appearance. Throughout it all, I felt grossly unqualified to be a mother.

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The Dark Days Descend

After a week in the NICU (and a lot of handholding from the lovely staff at Queen Mary Hospital) I finally brought my boys home. That’s when the ‘dark days’ truly set in. Anyone who has cared for premature babies understands the relentless cycle: waking every two to three hours, feeding, burping, and settling them back to sleep, only to start all over again. The pressure to breastfeed felt suffocating — from society at large, my husband, fellow mothers and the polished perfection I saw on Instagram. I convinced myself that anything less than exclusive breastfeeding signified failure. Measured by that impossible standard, I fell short. Despite breastfeeding and pumping around the clock, I still had to supplement with formula, and the sense of inadequacy was crushing.

I was functioning on just 45 minutes of sleep at a time, stumbling through those days as little more than a walking zombie. Clad in postpartum nappies and nipple pads, I cringe to admit that I was lucky if I managed a shower once a week. Everything that once defined me — my hobbies, career, friendships and interests — seemed to vanish. My entire world condensed to the relentless cycle of feeding, pumping, burping and changing nappies. The loss of my identity leads me to my next confession: I have never felt more alone. Caring for twins meant that my husband and I both had to be fully hands-on, and as the sleep deprivation mounted, so did the strain on our relationship. To call our disagreements ‘bickering’ would be a kindness — it was often all-out war. In retrospect, I can’t even recall the details of most arguments, but I do remember feeling more animosity towards him than I ever thought possible.

Fast forward two years, and we welcomed a little girl into our family. This time, I knew to expect the infamous ‘dark days’ though to my relief, they felt considerably less overwhelming. This brings me to my final confession: I formed an immediate bond with my daughter, something that had taken several months with my sons. Perhaps the ease stemmed from having just one baby this time, or maybe it was the confidence that comes with having traversed motherhood’s stormy terrain before—a seasoned veteran, finally at ease in her own skin.

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