Content note: this article contains references to miscarriage and baby loss that readers may find upsetting.

“You should hurry up and have a baby before your womb shrivels up and it is too late.” Hearing these harsh words from an elderly female relative at a family gathering was mortifying. Had my husband and I been struggling to conceive then, that interaction would have been devastating. As it was, we weren’t actively trying to start a family at that point.

Having married in our late 20s, we wanted to enjoy our lives as a duo before eventually becoming a trio. But over time, I became less enamoured with the idea of having a baby. The insensitive comments and intrusive questions kept coming, and increasingly this made me feel like motherhood was the only thing that mattered now I was married – no other future aspirations held any value.

All that pressure to procreate simply pushed me in the opposite direction. I rebelled against everything I’d been culturally conditioned to achieve as a South Asian woman. Convinced that a baby would mean losing my identity, figure and freedom forever, I actively ignored all the unsolicited advice about fertility and my biological clock. 

Eight years after we tied the knot, I discovered I was pregnant. Instead of being terrified at seeing the positive test, I was elated. Taking my time and doing things on my own terms meant I was now ready to embrace the excitement of becoming a mum. My mind started whirring with potential due dates, names and baby shower ideas.

How I envy that naive version of myself now. A month into my pregnancy, I started spotting, and a scan confirmed that I’d no longer be welcoming a baby into the world. I’d been given a glimpse into a world I’d previously thought wasn’t for me, realised that I did want it after all, and then had the possibility ripped away. Processing that whole journey was confusing and devastating; was I to blame in some way?

That first miscarriage happened aged 35 – the age that often gets bandied about as being the moment when female fertility drops off a cliff (a 300-year-old stat that’s largely been debunked). It’s also the current average age of first-time fertility patients, as highlighted in the recently published Human Fertility and Embryology Authority’s (HFEA) Fertility Trends report. With global fertility rates in decline, the release of that report saw a huge surge in media outlets blaming women for ‘leaving it too late’ to have children – without any acknowledgement of the reasons behind the delay. 

It took me almost a decade to decide that I was ready to handle motherhood. Given that this had been my only pregnancy so far, we decided that it was best to run some basic fertility tests to get an idea of what the future might hold. After a year, we were approved for one NHS-funded IVF cycle – a length of time I’d not really anticipated, considering that I was at such a (supposedly) biologically crucial age.

As it turned out, those 12 months were only the start of a journey that would consume our lives for the next five years. I wonder how many hours my husband and I have spent waiting for appointments, test results, embryo development, uterine lining growth and good news. When clinics closed during the first lockdown, patients had no choice but to wait impatiently for their doors to reopen, each day taking us further away from our dreams. 

After four unsuccessful rounds of IVF with my own eggs (three at private clinics, where you pay for the privilege of speedier, personalised treatment), my husband and I decided to try using donor eggs. As there are so few donors of South Asian origin in the UK, we were told to expect to wait for up to three years before a suitable one became available. This delay could have been circumnavigated by pursuing treatment abroad but being able to share the donor’s details with our potential child when they turned 18 was of the utmost importance for us (anonymous donation is not permitted in the UK). Signing up to a foreign clinic when lockdowns could be announced at any moment also felt risky.

Fortunately, our clinic had many UK-based Spanish and Portuguese donors on their books with whom we shared certain physical characteristics, so we were happy to move forward with the best match; the choice to not use a South Asian donor was a complicated one but ultimately, we didn’t want to wait around in the hope that one would eventually materialise.

Just when we thought we were one step closer to baby Savla, we had another setback: our donor’s eggs were all immature. This meant the rest of the cycle was cancelled, and because she didn’t want to donate again immediately, we had to find a different donor. I was distraught – it really felt like time was running out.  

Thankfully, I matched with a second donor shortly afterwards and this round resulted in pregnancy. As I was approaching the eight-week mark, however, we found out that the pregnancy had stopped progressing. After years of injections, scans, blood tests and procedures, we were back at square one, feeling utterly broken and hopeless.

Fast forward three years and I am writing these words as my daughter sleeps. A few months after that missed miscarriage, I conceived naturally and had a textbook pregnancy – albeit fraught with loss-related fears and anxieties. Part of me will always wonder if I could have become a mother sooner, but the fact is I wasn’t ready. And once I was ready, I had very little control over the outcome of my fertility journey.

People postpone parenthood for all kinds of reasons. Maybe they’ve not found the right partner, don’t feel secure in their job or house, are saving up for IVF, can’t afford childcare or are waiting for another reason entirely. And for some, that decision to try for a baby will hit them like a ton of bricks – with every cycle causing fresh hope and disappointment. Whatever their circumstances, it’s so wrong to blame women for not jumping on the baby train sooner.  

Images: author’s own