Twins who have died: One woman's journey to hug 1,000 people

SALT LAKE CITY — A single white butterfly fluttered in the window.

Tasha Cram had just finished explaining to me that she and others in the "twin loss community" — those whose twins have died — believe butterflies are physical manifestations of "twin souls."

"Our twins come to us in the form of butterflies, and white butterflies specifically are very much a representation of an angel," Cram said. "Any butterflies, really. But when we see the white ones, it's like, 'Oh, OK, their actual soul is with us.'"

"There's one right there," I said, pointing out the window.

She laughed.

It wasn't the first time Cram had seen a white butterfly since arriving in Salt Lake City. She told me she'd seen a kaleidoscope of them earlier in the day dancing in a patch of grass outside the meeting room at a condo complex where a handful of Utah-based twin-lost twins had come to meet with her.

The butterflies are one of many ways that her twin sister Tonya comes to her, she says, even five decades after her death.

"I'm like, 'OK, she didn't just bring herself,'" Cram said, recalling when she saw the gaggle of butterflies. "She brought the rest of the twin angels with her."

Cram doesn't claim to be a therapist — but she's a surviving twin who's trying to build a community of twins through her business, Twinful , which she said is dedicated to supporting those who have lost their twin. And she's doing it one hug at a time.

Tasha and Tonya

Tonya died 19 days before their 4th birthday after a battle with leukemia. Cram said she still vividly remembers running from room to room after her death, searching for her, screaming for her.

Cram's hazel eyes brimmed with tears. Salt Lake City marked the second stop on a countrywide journey from her home in Jackson, California, on a mission to hug 1,000 twinless twins, hoping to help them heal from a loss that only another twin would understand.

With each city she visits, she said she's thinking of Tonya and how understanding her connection with her sister even decades later helped save her life from a deep depression, when she'd wish for death.

"She shows up. She shows up all the time. All the time," Cram told me, choking back her tears. "And when I'm really struggling, she reminds me, 'You were screaming at God for 36 years, (asking) why am I still here? Now you're here. ... You have a purpose. I didn't die at 4 years old so that you could go on with your life doing nothing.'"

It took Cram more than 40 years to embrace what she called her "eternal connection" to her twin. But in 2013, shortly after her 40th birthday, she was diagnosed with neurofibroma, which led to three major surgeries over three years to rid her body of benign masses. That hardship sent her on a journey of self-discovery, and in 2019, when her mother died, Cram said that trial forced her to "practice all of the things she taught me about dealing with grief." Her mother "challenged me to live my life as though (my twin and I) were sharing one body, and she encouraged me to see it as a gift rather than waiting to die."

"Literally within 15 minutes after she passed, I walked outside and there were two yellow butterflies that came up right in front of my face and danced in front of me," Cram recalled. "I viewed it as my mom and my twin celebrating their reunion and they wanted me to know that they were together."

Now, Cram said "we," she and her sister's soul, are determined to not only help twins grieve their losses, but also "teach the world about twins and how to be 'Twinful'" — a term she coined meaning one's twin "will always be with me," even in death — "and how the rest of humanity can learn from that unity."

Cram hopes to awaken other twins — but also the rest of the world — to the power of "connecting and supporting and encouraging one another." She said her mother believed "souls are made in cookie batches" and all people are made from the "same cookie dough," or "we all come from the same place." Whether you believe that's God, the universe, or whatever, she said, all humans are connected in some way.

"When we give ourselves permission to embrace the fact that we all come from the same place, the rest of humanity that isn't a multiple can actually learn from what we model through how we treat each other," she said. "If the whole world treated each other like twins, this world would be a very magical place."

Cram got involved with the nonprofit Twinless Twins Support Group International, then decided to start her own business, Twinful.

Her website, Twinful.com, tells her story and seeks to connect her with other twinless twins. It's where twins can sign up to receive one of her hugs on her road trip. She also founded the Butterfly Ranch, a healing retreat for twinless twins, at her home in California. She said proceeds from her website's shop, which sells shirts and stickers, go toward expanding the ranch into treehouses, hobbit houses, fairy cottages and yurts so twins can come "from around the world to honor those who have lost their twin and celebrate those who are still together in life." She also has a book, "Turning Twin Loss into Living Twinfully," set for release Aug. 22.

When I first met Cram, she gave me one of her hugs, squeezing me tight. I, too, am a twin — though I'm grateful my sister, Cami, is still alive and well. Still, Cram hugged me like a twinless twin, warm and deep. Just when I thought Cram would release me, she gave me another squeeze. At that moment, I tried to picture what it would be like to lose my twin sister. I couldn't imagine how painful it would be.

"I don't ever want to let go," she said, smiling.

What was it about the hugs, and why was she on a journey to give 1,000 of them?

Cram told me of the first twinless twin she'd ever hugged, after she'd embarked on her personal journey to understand and heal from Tonya's death. Her "No. 1," as she now calls Lisa Watson, was "transformational."

"It was like electricity went through my whole body. It was insane," she said. "In hugging her, I realized that because I still had my physical body, I was still able to have that twin experience in my physical body. I could still feel like a twin. And I didn't know that. And I wouldn't have known it had I not hugged a twin. You have to hug a twin to experience it."

Twins have fascinated the world throughout history. To this day, they continue to be the subject of scientific studies . The question of nature versus nurture is at the core of many of those studies. There are also anecdotal claims of a deeper psychic connection — it's common for twins to finish each other's sentences or know what the other is thinking. Some chalk that up to shared experiences, but Cram is a strong believer that twins — whether they're identical or fraternal — have a special biological and psychological connection because they share a womb.

When a twin dies, Cram said, the pain can be indescribable for the other. It can feel like losing a part of yourself. It can result in "complicated grief" and an extreme "identity crisis," Cram said.

When a member of her twin support group died by suicide, Cram declared, "We haven't done enough," and she decided to hug 1,000 twins "no matter how long it takes." She numbers and names each of them in a notebook with an iridescent purple cover.

As of last Saturday, she had recorded 147 hugs with twinless twins, with 18 cities to go.

'It's like half of you is missing'

Seven twinless twins came to meet Cram in Salt Lake City this past weekend. Each brought portraits of their lost twins. Sitting in a circle around Cram, some stayed quiet when they were gently offered an opportunity to talk about their twin.

Others spoke up.

There was Detria Taylor, of Herriman, who lost her twin sister Betria two years ago at age 49, due to a blood clot following a hysterectomy. She wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue as she told the group she's been feeling anger since her passing, frustrated that other family members haven't seemed to understand her loss. She said she's terrified of wrecking her car — but only because she would be devastated if the back window were to shatter and destroy a decal honoring her sister, a heart and angel wings enveloping a portrait of Betria. She told me her sister was looking forward to turning 50, and she always wanted to see the northern lights in Alaska. Detria now plans to see the northern lights and scatter some of Betria's ashes there.

There was Kelli Christensen, of Hooper, who lost her twin sister Leslie at age 47 from a heart attack and a seizure in 2015. When she learned of her death, Christensen said she broke down in uncontrollable sobs. "It just broke me. ... Crushed. Melted." At times, she'd go a week without showering. For years after she struggled with a "severe identity crisis," and in the last two years she's finally felt like she's been healing. "It took me six years of declining, to the point my husband didn't know what to do with me." He eventually surprised her with a plane ride to a twin gathering in Texas that she described as her "first day of my life back."

There was Mike Walker, who lost his twin years ago and was at first reluctant to attend the gathering, but ultimately decided to go at the prodding of his mother. He didn't say much to the group, but before leaving he told Cram he was grateful he'd come.

And there was Charla Haley, of West Jordan, who lost her twin Carla at age 58 in 2015 from lung cancer. Her illness was swift and brutal. Haley said she and her sister never talked about what would happen if she died, and she wished it were her, because she's still grappling with the emptiness she left behind. Haley said she misses the "hysterical laughter" she'd share with Carla. Some mornings, Haley still wakes up crying, but she decides to make a conscious choice to not "live in that grief."

"You know, I have lost my stepdad, I lost my dad, I lost my mom. And Carla is the worst one," Haley said. "It's a completely different disconnect than all of those others. ... It's like half of you is missing."

Haley joked that Carla was the "evil" twin. In grade school, when Haley's friends would mistake Carla for her, she'd glower (in contrast, young Charla would laugh). Later in life, Carla was the moody, headstrong twin. She wore her hair red while Haley wears hers blond. Even though they had their differences, Haley and her twin were "super close." Today, Haley wears a ring with two heart-shaped purple gems. Her name and Carla's are inscribed on either side of the gems. Inside the band, it reads "twins forever."

Haley also got a tattoo on her wrist in Carla's handwriting from a greeting card that reads, "Love you lots, Carla." Haley said sometimes when she's "really missing Carla" she puts her hand over the tattoo and can feel warmth wash over her, as if Carla is hugging her.

Haley first met Cram several years ago through a twin support Facebook page. Since then, Haley, who works in public relations for the state of Utah, has helped Cram spread the word about her journey to hug 1,000 twins. After her first hug, "I was like, 'There have to be other twins in Utah who have lost their twins who could benefit from this.'"

Cram's hug helped "heal my heart," Haley said.

"It was like hugging my twin. It's the oddest feeling. But it's the most special," Haley said. "It's like you feel like you're whole again."

After spending the afternoon with Cram and the other twinless twins, I headed to my car, again thinking about my own twin and if I have fully appreciated our special kinship. Cami and I have had our own twin moments, finishing each other's sentences and what have you. But I've never known anything else. We were born a mere three minutes apart, but we have our differences, too. Most of the time we act more like siblings than twins.

I was lost in thought as I stepped out into the sunlight. But as I walked under a tree, another white butterfly glided in front of me.

Perhaps it was Tonya telling me to cherish all the time I still have with my twin.

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