WE HAD TRIPLETS, AND NOW WE ARE THINKING OF GIVING ONE UP FOR ADOPTION

No one truly prepares you for this part. You see the heartwarming photos—triplets dressed in identical outfits, parents glowing with joy. But what you don’t see is the reality—three babies crying at once, and you running on barely an hour of sleep in five days.

I adore my children with every fiber of my being, but there are nights—especially around 2:40 a.m.—when I sit on the edge of the bed, one baby in my arms, the other two wailing in the background, and I silently wonder: Did we take on more than we could handle?

We weren’t ready for three. Honestly, we weren’t even fully prepared for two. Emotionally, financially, logistically—we were struggling with one before the pregnancy even happened. Now it feels like we’re caught in a storm with no direction. My husband, once calm and endlessly patient, now flinches at the sound of the bottle warmer. We hardly speak, not out of anger, but sheer exhaustion. We pass each other like strangers in our own home—two people drained, disconnected. The love hasn’t disappeared, but it’s buried beneath endless diapers, feedings, and sleepless nights.

When we first found out we were having triplets, it felt like a miracle—overwhelming, beautiful, terrifying. We were elated but scared. What no one warned us about was this level of fatigue—the kind that chips away at your body, your identity, your marriage.

Every day feels like survival mode. My body aches in ways I never imagined. I can’t remember the last time I ate without background crying, or took a shower that wasn’t rushed by a looming meltdown. Well-meaning friends without kids say, “Take it easy.” But how can you, when someone always needs something and only you know where to find the clean pacifiers or onesies?

Nathan, my husband, is doing his best. I see that. But I also see the fatigue in his eyes. The long silences. The forced smiles. It’s like we’re clinging to the same lifeboat, but slowly drifting apart.

And then comes the thought—quiet, painful, but persistent. Maybe one of the babies would be better off elsewhere. Maybe adoption isn’t giving up. Maybe it’s love—a kind of love that recognizes when someone else might be able to give more than we can right now.

I started researching adoption—quietly, privately. I read stories from parents who made that choice—not out of failure, but out of hope. I contacted a few agencies. I weighed the guilt. And though Nathan never said a word about it, I sensed he was thinking the same.

Then one night, in the rare quiet after the babies had fallen asleep, Nathan finally spoke. “I’ve been thinking… maybe we should consider adoption. Not because we want to, but because we have to. For their sake.”

Hearing those words shattered me. The thing I hadn’t dared to say aloud was now spoken by the person I trust most. It wasn’t cruel—it was raw and deeply honest. I looked at him, torn between heartbreak and relief. “I don’t want to lose any of them,” I whispered. “They’re my babies.”

“I know,” he replied gently. “But can we be the best parents for all three of them—like this?”

That’s when the unexpected happened. My sister-in-law, Marie—who had struggled for years with infertility—reached out. She and her husband Paul offered to adopt one of the babies if we were seriously considering it. They weren’t strangers. They were family. People we loved. People we could trust to care for our child like their own.

For a moment, time stood still. It was a kind, generous offer. Marie could give one of the babies a calm, focused home. But despite the logic, my heart refused to let go.

Then Marie and Paul shared something that changed everything. Their lawyer had told them about support programs for families like ours—families overwhelmed in the early stages of parenthood. There were financial aid options, access to counseling, help with childcare, and other resources we had no idea existed.

And just like that, hope crept back in.

Maybe adoption wasn’t our only option. Maybe we just needed support—and the humility to ask for it.

So we made a new decision. We didn’t give a child up. Instead, we reached out. We leaned on our family. We accepted the help we so desperately needed. And everything began to change.

We’re still tired. Still stretched thin. But we’re no longer drowning. We’re afloat. We’re healing. And more than anything, we’re doing it together.

If you’re reading this and feeling underwater, please remember this: You are not alone. There is no shame in asking for help. Strength isn’t doing everything alone—it’s knowing when to reach out and let others help you carry the weight.

Getting help saved our family. Maybe it can save yours, too.

LifescapeJourney

WE HAD TRIPLETS, AND NOW WE ARE THINKING OF GIVING ONE UP FOR ADOPTION

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