I was sitting my last exam for the second year of my English and film studies degree when I suddenly started feeling sick.

From one moment to the next, I was too weak to sit in my chair. I felt feverish and nauseous and all I wanted to do was to lie down on the floor right there and then.

Two weeks later, during a visit to my hometown in Germany, I found out I was pregnant with twins. The moment the doctor told me it was a twin pregnancy I almost blacked out.

Within seconds, I buried all plans for my foreseeable future: finishing my degree, staying in London, doing internships, finding a graduate job, having a life.

On my way to my parents’ house, I wondered how I was supposed to tell my conservative parents that I’d been knocked up with twins by a 23-year-old who still lived with his parents.

But to my surprise, my mum listened, got up, and announced that she was going to get me some vitamins and a pregnancy guide. She sent my dad to the shop to buy me saltine crackers.

My friends were supportive and seemed to have no doubts about my ability to handle life with twins on my own. After months of extreme nausea and fatigue, I started feeling better and decided not to defer my third year at university. I told my tutors that I’d give birth to twins some time in January and would be able to attend lectures only sporadically for the last term of my final year.

My personal adviser was surprised to see that I wasn’t “extremely miserable and depressed”, but respected my decision and promised ongoing support from my departments.

Telling the twins’ father proved to be far more stressful. Since we had never been in a relationship, I had prepared myself for a negative and confrontational reaction. After talking to him I knew I was on my own.

Over the next few months, I suffered from anxiety, insomnia and depression. I felt more and more isolated from the world around me since my friends were working and partying at weekends while I sat at home trying to figure out how I’d survive as a single parent of two in London.

A few weeks into my third year at university, my daughters were born highly premature at 24 weeks, almost three and a half months too early and with a 30% chance of survival.

For three months I spent 12 hours a day at the neonatal intensive care unit, helplessly watching my children hover between life and death in incubators. In between, I went to lectures and tried to keep up with my three-hourly breast milk pumping schedule.

After 86 days, one of my daughters died suddenly and unexpectedly. Her death after months of watching her endure innumerable medical procedures and surgeries left me numb and aggressive towards everyone and everything.

When my surviving daughter was discharged, my parents took her to Germany, because I was unable to care for her on my own. Over the next five months, my studies provided the distraction I needed and made me feel that I was doing my best to provide my daughter with a future.

Today, one and a half years later, I’m in a much better place. My daughter is a thriving, healthy and happy toddler and lives with me full-time. Due to extortionate childcare costs, I am currently a stay-at-home single parent and self-employed – I host people through Airbnb in my London flat.

I graduated from university and am planning to do a master’s in newspaper journalism at City University next year. I’m thankful for my daughter and positive about our future.

Without the help of family and friends all this would have been impossible. It’s still difficult to combine my career and social life with my 24/7 responsibilities as a mother. But I enjoy being a young parent and have shown that getting pregnant while at university is not the end of the world.

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