When I first considered freezing my eggs – after I had become single, was made redundant, and moved back in with my parents in my early thirties – I felt like a failure. It was mid-pandemic, and I was categorically not hitting any #lifegoals.
My Asian background made it worse. When I was growing up, Indian weddings were like buses: you’d wait ages for one, then three came along all at once. Around the same time as girls get measured for their first Marks & Spencer bra, they’re asked: “So, when are you going to get married?” It’s as though everyone is anxious to see you tick off the milestones on the metaphorical conveyer belt of life: first marriage, then baby carriage.
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The closest I’ve come to a nuclear family of my own was being engaged at 30, only to see my plans for my big fat Jindian (Jewish and Indian) wedding fall apart. Once word got out that I was – gasp! – no longer engaged, the previously oh-so frequent, deeply personal question of when I’d get married was never directed at me again.
For my parents’ generation – let’s call them Generation Arranged Marriage – divorce is like the act that cannot be named. One friend of my age who is a divorcée was ordered by her mum to go upstairs when relatives came to visit. It’s like sweeping your children under the carpet.
In the eyes of this community, I’m damaged goods. The end of my engagement was like a death, and the people around me were mourning the marriage and 2.4 children that should have been my future. It was as though it was now inevitable that I (and my ovaries) would wither away like Miss Havisham. As one person remarked to me: “I guess your nephew will be the next person in your family to get married.” He was seven at the time.
As for me? Sure, my heart was broken, but it hadn’t stopped beating. This collective giving up on me and my personal life had one unexpected side-effect: it liberated me to embrace life on my own terms – and to stop caring about what other people think.
Today, in my mid-thirties, I’m living abroad and travel regularly, collecting passport stamps and stories along the way. (My ex-fiancé hated holidays.) I’m breaking brown ground as part of the first generation of women in my family to go to university, live alone and live alone abroad. Now, I’ll be the first to freeze my eggs.
When I first explored egg freezing, it felt like a VIP club for the rich and famous, the likes of the Kardashians and Paris Hilton. Whenever I saw brochures or watched documentaries, I saw white faces. I hadn’t come across any stories from minority or working-class women – and I was both. I grew up on a council estate, where it was necessary to dodge racists, dog shit and joy riders. Oh, and used condoms, which were clearly not all that widely used (when I was at school a 12-year-old girl fell pregnant). Sex education in those days made you so worried about the prospect of getting pregnant, it was impossible to imagine one day being worried about not getting pregnant. We should teach the latter as much as the former.
According to the Office for National Statistics, childbirth is changing. In 2020, for the first time, more than half of the women born in England and Wales were childless. Plus, after the first Covid lockdown, egg freezing enquiries rose by 50 per cent.
I was among those interested parties, but the process is not as straightforward as you might think. For one thing, it’s expensive… £4,300 expensive, in my case – and that’s without factoring in medication and storage. While some people are still debating who should pick up the bill on a date, I don’t have a partner to go halves with on freezing my eggs.
When it came to choosing a clinic, the HFEA (Human Fertility and Embryology Authority) site became my bible. Not only do few clinics’ online testimonials include stories from people of colour, some cannot even spell my name correctly. When you’re trusting them with something so sacred, it’s not a good start.
Eventually, I settled on TFP Oxford Fertility. When I spoke to one of the staff, it felt like I was talking to a BFF who just happened to be an egg freezing expert. Plus, given that there could be half a dozen visits over the space of just two weeks, it’s conveniently close to my parents’ home.
In the run up to the procedure, I’m not giving into temptation. I’ve been advised to exercise regularly, eat healthier, avoid alcohol and take fertility supplements. Most of all, I am focusing on me, glorious me. Goodbye toxic relationships, hello healthy eggs.
There is no “right way” to approach fertility. I only decided to pursue freezing my eggs after talking to other women from diverse backgrounds. Just as their openness benefitted me, I’m hoping my opening up benefits others. So, I’m championing egg freezing, rather than hiding it like a tampon up my sleeve. It’s time to remove the shame, normalise the process and empower women.
Before I told my parents, I was next-level nervous. Of course, I’m a grown adult – it’s my body, my choice. Even if they didn’t approve, I would continue. Nonetheless, I was offering up sincerity in the hope it would be met with offers of support.
When I told them, my mum exclaimed: “Can you do it this weekend?” A wave of relief washed over me, and I felt like what had begun to seem like a lost opportunity could become a reality. It also made me realise that I shouldn’t be so quick to judge my parents.
A word of warning: once you hop on the fertility rollercoaster, there are emotional ups and downs. So far, I’ve gone from enraged to empowered. First, I was angry at biology being so sexist, ranting that men – with their far wider window of time to start a family – have it easy. Then, I was excited about my first consultation. Next, I was in tears over the 18 percent success rate. Then, I was rational about the odds. Let’s face it: if there was an 18 percent chance you’d get struck by lightning, you’d be terrified to leave the house.
Talking about egg freezing has been good for me. The embarrassment I once felt diminishes with each conversation. At a work event, I stopped someone halfway through a joke about women being single for so long that “they’ll have to freeze their eggs”, and pointed out that I’m in the midst of the process. It’s hard to make fun of someone when they’ve taken charge of the narrative.
In the end, despite my initial concerns about judgement from my immediate family and wider community, I’ve found strength in my choices. Whatever the outcome, I sure as hell am not a failure. I’m in control.