My body felt foreign, reorganized by motherhood into shapes I barely understood, softer where it had once been firm, stretched and mapped by silver lines tracing the road toward these children.
The incision across my abdomen ached constantly, a reminder that a surgeon’s quick decisions had saved four lives that night: my three sons and the woman I was still struggling to become.
Sleep deprivation pressed on me like a fog so dense the room tilted and skipped if I turned my head too quickly or tried to stand without bracing myself first.
I lived in a state of barely controlled calm, navigating the impossible logistics of caring for three newborns at once, constantly juggling overlapping feeding schedules, diapers, bottles, and relentless, echoing cries.
Nannies and night nurses paraded through our house, quitting every few weeks, burned out by the sheer intensity of three infants, insisting even professionals had limits they refused to cross.
Our four thousand square foot luxury home felt suffocatingly small, every corner jammed with bassinets, formula, wipes, pumps, monitors, and three different versions of everything a baby could possibly need.
