Freezing my eggs in 2014 felt like a progressive and empowering decision, a technological safeguard for future motherhood. However, I didn’t foresee the emotional challenges I’d face a decade later, as this scientific intervention became a personal reflection on time, money, and unrealized aspirations.
I always envisioned having children. I loved my younger cousins, often babysat, and worked in a church nursery during college. Yet, childbirth wasn’t an overwhelming desire. Unlike some friends in high school, I never pretended to be pregnant with a pillow or felt pressured by a ticking biological clock.
By my mid-30s, I had achieved career success and felt ready for a family. A colleague’s warnings about declining fertility prompted me to check my hormone levels. Despite my youthful appearance, tests showed my egg count was below average. The American Society for Reproductive Medicine had recently deemed egg freezing no longer experimental, prompting positive media coverage and employer coverage of costs. Despite the high cost, freezing my eggs seemed like the right choice.
My then-boyfriend was unsure about marriage and fatherhood. If we broke up, I didn’t want to resent him for wasting my fertile years. If we stayed together, the eggs could be used for a second child, or our first if necessary. By the time I started hormone injections, we had separated. The doctor retrieved only three eggs, less than the recommended eight to 15 for a future pregnancy.
During my second cycle, I was dating someone who was enthusiastic about marriage and children. He even flew to support me after the retrieval, joking that he might be helping another man father my children. This cycle yielded a slightly better five eggs.
In my early 40s, I remained hopeful about finding a partner and using my frozen eggs for in vitro fertilization. I ruled out having a baby alone with donor sperm, although I respect those who choose that path. I filled my life with fulfilling work, close friends, and travel. I became the quintessential “aunt,” showering my niece and nephew with gifts and enjoying time with my friends’ children.
Now at 49, I feel my chance to have children has passed. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it simply didn’t happen, and I’ve accepted it. Recently, meeting a friend’s newborn son and experiencing baby snuggles and his scent, while also seeing her kitchen full of bottles and hearing stories of sleepless nights, reinforced my satisfaction with my independent life.
Yet, every spring, I feel anxious when the fertility clinic sends the annual storage renewal letter. In recent years, a demanding job left me no time to think about it, so I simply paid the fee. Last year, after leaving my job and planning a year of international travel, a friend encouraged me to pay the fee and use the time to consider my future. Now, starting a new job overseas, I’m still struggling with what to do with my eggs. Despite accepting my child-free life, I hesitate to tell the clinic to discard them.
Last year, I cleared out a storage unit containing childhood mementos my parents had saved. Being sentimental, I kept more than I probably should have. However, in a burst of productivity, I purged a lot, including my fourth-grade Trapper Keeper. If my parents had thrown it away years ago, I wouldn’t have thought about it. It has no practical use now, but I realized I liked knowing it existed and now wish I had kept it.
It’s a small comparison, but it makes me wonder. Having saved my eggs for so long, will I regret letting them go? Is there a scenario, like meeting a new partner, where I would still use them? I thought I had accepted not having children, but the idea of destroying my eggs has unexpectedly made me grieve or perhaps finally accept a different future than I imagined. My eggs represent both what could have been and what still could be. Instead of passively accepting that I never got pregnant, I must now actively eliminate the last chance I have.
Of course, I haven’t been paying for a guaranteed pregnancy, but for the possibility of one. There’s no guarantee that my few eggs would even thaw, form an embryo, implant, or result in a baby. This makes me question the financial investment and whether I should continue throwing money away. Despite the initial optimism, studies show that only a small percentage of women use their frozen eggs, often conceiving naturally or using fresh eggs for in vitro fertilization. And biology still plays a role, as pregnancy in older women, even with frozen younger eggs, can have risks.
Although discarding these eggs feels surprisingly significant, there’s no ceremony—just a form authorizing lab technicians to “ethically discard” what once held my deepest hope. Friends have suggested donating my eggs, but that doesn’t solve my problem. I froze my eggs intending to raise my own child, so I’m not comfortable giving them to a stranger, assuming they’re even viable. If I already had a baby, I would have realized that future and feel less attached to these unused eggs.
Here’s what I wish I had known a decade ago: besides the financial cost, there’s an emotional toll—lingering hope and unfulfilled potential—to keeping frozen eggs. If I could go back to 2014, would I make the same choice? Probably. I valued the peace of mind and sense of control. However, that was based on the assumption that I would eventually have a baby. I wish I had also known the psychological weight of my unused eggs would become a source of grief.
I will write another check this spring, not because I truly believe I will use my eggs, but because letting go feels too final. Maybe when I turn 50, I will finally be ready. Maybe.