Mother, Midwife, Me. In no particular order

Way back when, in the depths of my midwifery training, I wrote for The Practising Midwife about having twins. I wrote that my role in the world of midwifery would change as my career progresses, but that my role as a mother of twins would remain constant. I found that a bitter pill to swallow and a hard reality to face.

My girls are fast approaching seven, although they increasingly act like teens, and I am trying to guide two small humans through life when I seem to make a hash of it myself sometimes. Week four of life as an NQM has seen me caring for twins. In the middle of a night shift, when my nerves were slightly jangled still from having spent a gloriously sunny day asleep in bed when the rest of the county had decamped to the beach, I walked into a room and stood face to face with the woman I had been nearly seven years ago.

Feeding, winding, changing, on a seemingly constant cycle, the shadow of scanty snatched moments of sleep etched on her face. Two small humans wholly reliant on her and the weight of this new reality already visible in her eyes. Her beautiful babies crying, their gentle mewing becoming insistent squawking, threw me back to my own sleepless nights. The night I fell asleep on the baby monitor was a particular low point in my existence, closely followed by the time I fed the same baby twice while her sister missed out due to a mix up in sleeping positions, that was akin to a farcical comedy sketch.

I felt, and still feel, an endless amount of guilt. A close family member has suffered multiple miscarriages, the last of which was a twin pregnancy. I feel as though I am flaunting my own children, and I hide from them how unwell I have been. I won't divulge how much I struggle to reconcile how I have felt about having children with how others expect me to feel. Guilt is etched into my soul and onto my skin. I have met so many women who would give their everything to have what I have, yet at times I have wished my children away, hoped for quiet and solitude, dreamed of running out the door.

I remember snippets of when they were tiny, although I'm not sure whether I actually remember or whether I think I remember because the moment was captured on film. Moments have been immortalised behind a small panel of glass and stand proud in our home, daring me to recall. Snapshots force me to confront my own reality and accept my own 'normal'.

Being a mum has in fact changed as the girls have got older and developed their own tastes and personalities. In many respects it has become more challenging, but my relationship with them has become easier. Rightly or wrongly, I find the relationship with them more gratifying. Their ability to interact, be truly hilarious, run rings around me, spend hours drawing, hold a conversation, slip their hand into mine as a deliberate choice, their ability to laugh and love and learn has intensified my love for them.

I will vehemently tell anyone willing to listen that I have always loved my girls, but I honestly don't know whether that's true. I'm not sure I was able to love them to begin with, I was left reeling from a traumatic birth experience, felt confounded by the fact that a high-risk pregnancy had produced two healthy babies, and was perplexed by the hasty unravelling of my brain and my mental health. When getting dressed is an insurmountable task, loving two tiny beings that invade your world and corrode your identity is beyond comprehension. It has taken me years to untangle the web of guilt that laced its way through my identity as a mother.

I still feel, however, that I need to justify parenting choices I make, particularly when it comes to working. Working means other people sometimes put my girls to bed, and it means getting up mega early for some shifts. It involves a careful map of childminders and babysitters that sometimes work on a relay basis, with one passing the baton to the other. More guilt. These days end with me pitching up at home when the girls are already tucked up in bed. I'm tired and dehydrated, but satisfied when I check on them and kiss them goodnight. I know the girls are well cared for in the hours I am not there. Incredulity meets me when I tell people I am a single mum and working full-time. People like telling me that I could afford to work part-time; tax credits and so on would pick up the financial slack.

I've given up trying to explain to them that I love working. I enjoy the decisions I've made and I've worked hard to become a midwife. There are tough days, I've cried about work more times than I care to imagine, but I enjoy going to work and I love my job. I've always enjoyed working and studying, keeping my mind occupied. Work is linked to identity for me, it allows me to explore other interests, understand who I am, give back, do things I love, meet new people.

I have come to understand that my identity has evolved, just as I predicted. I am no longer a student, I am now a midwife. I am mother to two gloriously feisty and hyperbolic girls that I can honestly say I love to petrifying depths. I am now carving my own identity, as me. I need to move beyond being a mum and a midwife, and negotiate who I am. Names are important to me. My husband never used to call me by name, using less than friendly nicknames in private and never addressing me in public. When I left him, reverting to my maiden name was essential for me to reclaim something, although I have no idea what. When I was pregnant, I was the 'twin mum', after I had the girls I became defined by the fact that I had twins. My actual name became usurped by 'the twins' mum' or the label 'mummy'. After work last week, me and my girls – our wonky household of three – settled onto the grass besides the park. After our picnic, one of the girls was playing a 20 questions type game with me, which proceeded as follows:

'What's your name?'

'Mummy'

'No, silly, your real name, who are you?'

Perceptive six-year old.

Similarly, I've never referred to them as 'the twins'. They're twins, but they have names and separate identities, even though they are inextricably linked. Me calling them 'the girls' here is just because it's here. I also get irritated when women who have just had babies are asked 'How's mummy?'. I can't work out whether it's my own personal grievance, whether I'm angered because I felt robbed of my own identity and pressurised into being defined as a mum, or whether this is a genuine grievance amongst women.

Clearly, I have hang ups and insecurities about being a mum, but these don't define me any more. I used to shy away from speaking about the girls because it felt too raw, and I felt like a fraud if I talked about loving parenting or a failure if I told the truth. I'm going to listen and learn, look to my girls and my life gurus for guidance, but I'm not going to apologise for who I am any more or feel guilty. I spent years knowing that I should feel lucky that I have the girls, but now I actually feel lucky. I know what I have and how precious that is. I'm not sorry that I'm a single mum, or a midwife working full-time, or me. I'm not sorry that I want to work, study, be a mum, and have my own identity too.

Mother, Midwife, Me. In no particular order.