Suzanne Perrot

The sky over Toulouse, France, was that gentle spring blue that makes things seem easier than they are. I wore red lipstick and my white sunglasses—not for fashion, but to feel like myself. I was pushing three strollers along the Canal du Midi. Behind me, Baptiste, five, and Jeanne, three, pedaled their bikes in crooked lines. What looked like a peaceful outing had taken over an hour to prepare.

I’m 36. I used to run the graphics department of a magazine. Back then, my life was deadlines and city breaks. We had two children and wanted a third. Instead, life gave us three—triplets, conceived naturally. I still remember the doctor in Lisbon staring at the ultrasound and asking, “Was it IVF?” When I said no, he turned the screen toward me. Three tiny heartbeats.

We laughed. Then came fear. The suggestion to “reduce” the pregnancy, the lists of risks, the warnings. We said no. I got through months of nausea, monitoring, and exhaustion. At Christmas, I was still smiling, filming my giant belly for Instagram. But then I caught the flu and COVID. I gave birth at 34 weeks, masked and unable to kiss them. Zoé, Inès, and Théo spent five days in incubators. I watched them through plastic, trying not to cry.

Now, I get maybe two hours of sleep a day. I breastfeed, bottle-feed, pump, change, soothe, repeat. My mother helps. Sébastien, my husband, does what he can. We live in a six-room flat with a garden. It’s tight but it works—for now. We need a bigger car. We dream of a holiday, maybe this autumn. Somewhere quiet, with space for seven—and Grandma. Somewhere I can breathe again.

People melt when they see the triplets. Even online, the love is constant. I share the chaos and the tenderness on social media. I try not to fake it. This isn’t glamorous. But somehow, it’s beautiful. Even when I’m too tired to stand. Even when the house looks like a nursery exploded. Even when I question whether I can keep doing this.