I told a stranger with twins that we lost our son's twin
Yesterday, I told a stranger who has twins that Seamus is an identical twin and that we lost his brother.
This may seem like nothing to many of you, but it was monumental for me.
How long has it been now? Three and a half years since we lost Killian? I’m not sure what it is about me, but I seem to attract twins everywhere I go. Families with twins always seem to sit next to us at story time. Seamus always gravitates toward the only twins at the playground. They’re in the shopping cart ahead of us at checkout. Another ex of mine has twins. My therapist, my family, my friends—they all comment on it. Twins just find me.
And for years, it’s been debilitating. I watch Seamus play with two kids his age who look exactly alike, and all I see is what’s missing from his life. I want him to have his second half more than anything. I want him to bicker and laugh and argue and play with the one he grew next to inside of me. I see twin parents, frazzled and exhausted, and I yearn for that world they’re swirling in. I want that level of tired. I want that chaos. I want that excitement and confusion and the mess of it all.
When I meet people without our kids around, sometimes they mention they have twins. I see their faces light up as they say it—that slight smirk, the glow. They know the reaction they’ll get: Wow, go you! That’s no joke! I know it because I had that glow once too, when I felt them kicking inside of me. It’s like a special club, a unique bond to share.
But when people tell me they have twins, I can never respond the way they expect. Instead, I shut down. I zip myself up, locking my heart away. My mind immediately goes, Oh, no no no. We can never be friends now. No playdates. No friendships. Nope. Too bad, they seemed cool. And then I emotionally ghost them before anything even begins.
I hate the feelings that jolt through me when “the reveal” happens. My heart pounds so loud I fear others can hear it. My face and neck flush blotchy red. My palms sweat. My hands fidget. Inside, I’m screaming SLOW EXHALE SLOW EXHALE SLOW EXHALE. It’s hard to listen to what someone is saying when every alarm bell inside you is blaring, your own internal fire department called out to duty.
I don’t know what made yesterday different.
Maybe the exhaustion of being captive to my own thoughts. Maybe the quietest whisper of curiosity: But… what if…? Maybe the realization that if it all went south, I could just never see this person again, like all the others before.
Clumsily, and maybe with a slight degree of panic, I blurted out, “Sea… Seamus is a twin, too.” And then, quickly, “We lost his brother.”
The building didn’t catch fire. I didn’t disintegrate into ashes. She shared her condolences, her empathy, but the moment wasn’t consumed by tension like I had feared. One of my biggest worries about sharing Seamus’ story is that I’ll make people feel guilty, awkward, or uncomfortable. Maybe she did. I don’t know. But what followed was something revolutionary.
The wall I had built around twin parents crumbled.
We shared stories. We talked about finding out we were pregnant with twins, feeling two sets of feet kicking, battling an extra degree of sickness. No, our experiences weren’t the same. Our realities were obviously quite different. But there was so much we could connect on. For once, I didn’t block it out. My body, which usually yells DISENGAGE, DISENGAGE, DISENGAGE, chose connection instead. And instead of destruction, it led me to something beautiful.
To my shock, my anxiety lost its power.
I had built these moments up in my head as catastrophic. They had crippled me, made me small, made me hide. But when I stepped into the unknown what if, the weight of it all evaporated. We connected. We had so much in common. The places we’d traveled. Our interests. Our passions. Things I would have locked away had I let my fear win.
It felt monumental to be able to say it—to tell a stranger, especially a twin parent, right away. No lingering bomb waiting to detonate. No buildup to an inevitable reveal. Just truth, out in the open.
I was safe. We were safe. And for the first time, I could see it: a playdate, even with their twins. I even did something I never do—I exchanged phone numbers.
One thing I told her in the conversation that felt like the most honest truth my heart held in that moment, “Yes, it’s been a little over 3 years now, but we’re finally in a place where we can actually breathe through it a bit better.”
