This story could have been written very differently. Here is what could have happened on that breezy summer day several years ago: I could have lost my remaining ovary. It would have been the first day of the rest of my life, a twenty-year-old who couldn’t have biological children. Instead, it was the day of surgery number two, and my rescued ovary prompted the beginning of a complicated journey of questions that otherwise I never would’ve needed to or thought to ask—about eggs and ovaries, and so much more: the degree to which I’d staked my identity on my fertility and ability to become pregnant on my terms and timeline; the power and ramifications of reproductive technologies; my habit of craving guarantees and being in control.

Changed narratives on my mind, I caught up with Mandy, Remy, and Lauren.

—

Mandy, now in her mid-thirties, and Quincy were still in Oakland, in the same house I’d visited before. We’d been on the phone for less than a minute when she shared the big news: She was three months pregnant. Her and Quincy’s embryos remained on ice, untouched. “When I was trying to get pregnant, I was so relieved I’d frozen embryos,” Mandy said when I asked if conceiving naturally had changed how she thought about egg freezing. “Even though I knew we couldn’t 100 percent bank on them, they still brought comfort.” For a while, motherhood remained a never-ending list of pros and cons, but sometime after freezing embryos she’d begun to feel attached to the idea of having biological children. “I’ve always been afraid of uncertainty, and here I am, having a kid, which is the most uncertain thing,” she said, chuckling. “It was only once I accepted that uncertainty that I started to feel excited about it. Now I’m embracing whatever is to come. There’s no more ambivalence on my end. Because I went all in.” I was used to hearing anxiety in her voice, but tonight on the phone, she sounded calm. There was a strength, wisdom, even, underlying all she was telling me, and it made me tear up.

While Mandy had felt good about her decision to freeze embryos for a long time after she did so, she felt differently now about all the money, time, and stress that had gone into it. She and Quincy were thrilled, and surprised, when they conceived so quickly. But now, she told me, “I felt like I was tricked. I’ve been scared for the last ten years, ever since I found these cysts on my ovaries. And then I got pregnant so fast and I was like, ‘So what was all of that for?’ ” Looking back, she wishes she hadn’t felt so steered by her anxiety. She got sucked into what she now describes as an industry trying to instill fear. “Egg freezing is seen as a solution, but it’s not, really—and often, like in my case, I didn’t even truly know if there was a problem,” she said. “I spent thousands of dollars, did all those extreme injections, went through a lot of emotional suffering. I did all that to feel more secure, to try and control my future. But I’ve learned that you can’t control life. You just can’t.” As for where she stands now with egg freezing, she told me, “I wish I hadn’t done it. Of course that’s easy to say now, because I’m pregnant. But I don’t think we’ll ever use those backup frozen embryos. If I do want more kids in the future and I can’t conceive naturally, I really believe I’ll be okay with that.”

She paused. “Not only are my ovaries more resilient than I thought they were, but I was, too,” she said, her voice soft and steady. “And I still am.”

Before we hung up, Mandy told me when the baby was due, and I gasped: her due date was my birthday. We laughed at how full-circle it felt. A few weeks before she gave birth, Mandy texted to tell me that her pregnancy app had told her, If you’re having a girl, she will already have all the eggs she’ll have in her lifetime. Mandy had groaned, with a laugh, and when I read her message, I laughed, too.

—

For Remy, nearing her late thirties, life had changed quite a bit. Days after we last spoke, she met a fella on a dating app and sent me a photo of the two of them on a hike, looking smitten. Meet Thomas,[*1] her message read. 99.9% this is THE ONE. A few months later, she texted me a picture of a positive pregnancy test. They’d stopped using protection only the month before, thinking it might take them up to a year to conceive because of Remy’s age, but were happily surprised when she’d gotten pregnant almost right away. They married at a courthouse in North Carolina, and then moved back to California, where Remy’s from. When we caught up over video, Remy, now an attending physician, was on maternity leave. She was glowing, her hair fixed high on her head, breastfeeding her one-month-old daughter. In the background, the mantel was decorated with Christmas stockings and several of Remy’s crystals, lovingly arranged by Thomas.

She and Thomas had talked about her frozen eggs soon after they began dating. “Having them in the background makes me feel very at ease,” Remy said. “We’d love a second baby, but not too soon.” She once joked to Thomas that he had all the characteristics she would’ve chosen if she’d gone the route of using a sperm donor to fertilize her frozen eggs, telling him, “You’re exactly the kind of phenotype that I wanted to mate with! You’re my million-dollar sperm.” Remy was often upbeat, even when she was tired, but as we talked I noticed how grounded and happy she seemed. And she was. “I couldn’t have in a million years dreamed up the reality I’m living now,” she said as her daughter nuzzled away.

Then, when their daughter was four months old, Remy discovered she was pregnant again. Baby number two was very much not planned. Once she and Thomas recovered from the shock, they were thrilled. During her first pregnancy Remy had told me it was very likely they’d use her frozen eggs for future babies. Now she said, “So much for freezing those eggs!”

—

On a warm autumn morning, I met Lauren, now in her mid-forties, at a coffee shop near my apartment. The last time I’d seen her was in Houston, after she’d unexpectedly gotten pregnant—after her terrible egg freezing experience, but not with her frozen eggs. Now she was parenting mostly solo; her son, Ethan, sat between us licking sour cream off of his breakfast burrito while he played with toy cars scattered across the table. They were in town visiting a friend; Lauren had gone to college in Boulder and was excited to show Ethan her old stomping grounds. She wore jeans, a red flowy top, and oversized sunglasses, her dark brown hair pulled back in a bun. I had wondered about her frozen eggs, whatever happened to them, and was shocked when Lauren told me she doesn’t know where they are. She’s received storage bills from different vendors—the clinic where she froze her eggs has changed its billing system multiple times over the years—and assumes her eggs remain at the clinic but isn’t sure.[*2] “I have zero faith that my eggs are safe and sound,” she told me. She ultimately abandoned pursuing legal action related to the Lupron error and first botched egg freezing cycle; it would’ve ended up costing her a fortune, and even more distress. “I was so stressed out and upset at the time, I couldn’t afford the added stress of a lawsuit,” she told me.

While she remains somewhat bitter, thanks to her unexpected happy ending, Lauren doesn’t lose sleep over the fate of her frozen eggs. They represent a backup plan she never ended up needing. “I never would have had Ethan if I hadn’t frozen my eggs,” she told me as she handed the four-year-old a dollar bill to give to the musician playing the cello nearby. A few minutes later, he scampered back to the table with a happy grin. Lauren hadn’t been sure how she would have a child until she began considering egg freezing when she was almost forty, and, she told me, doubts she would have had the guts to become a solo parent. Then, the night of her trigger shot and in the months after, her life changed in a way she never could have predicted. If she could do it all over again, she would, though she would’ve frozen her eggs at a younger age. She had Ethan despite her awful egg freezing ordeal, or maybe because of it—she’ll never know. But she wouldn’t change a single thing that happened if it changed where she’d ended up.

Eleven Beautiful Follicles

So, what did I decide to do about my ovary?

Part of me wants this to be a wise recounting, not a wishy-washy one. But I have lost track of how many times I sat down with this question that I desperately wanted to answer and then put to rest. It took me years to make my egg freezing decision. It took me this entire book.

One day in the heart of winter, I lay on my bed staring at the icy branches outside my window. In my hands: the ultrasound image of my ovary from years ago, the photo now grayed and fading, and my most recent image, shiny and crisp, from my annual OB/GYN visit days earlier. At the appointment, I asked for a transvaginal ultrasound to check up on my ovary. “Yes, I remember, you’ve got the one ovary,” the technician said, remembering me from two years earlier, when I’d last requested an ultrasound. “You know the drill,” she said on her way out of the room. I undressed from the waist down and lay back on the table, stirrups holding my feet. The technician returned and dimmed the lights. Several minutes later: “You have eleven beautiful follicles,” she remarked, swiveling the monitor around to show me. There was my ovary, and there were the follicles inside, squishy black ovals on the screen that almost seemed to pulse as she counted them out to me. “Yay!” I said, grinning. Little, lovely ovary, I thought, flushing with a strange mix of pride and relief. Look at you, still doing your thing. Eleven potential eggs. And we’re not even trying; we don’t even need them yet. “You’ve got time,” my doctor told me after she completed my checkup and we discussed my follicle count. She was talking about my eggs, but she might as well have been speaking of a paradigm shift in my life. My age meant the odds were in my favor, even with just one ovary—for now, at least, and for several more years, best-case. I left the gynecologist’s office feeling deeply comforted, even though I hadn’t thought anything was wrong, and hopeful, even though I wasn’t trying to get pregnant.

Time. I’ve got it, so I’m told. Many don’t.

If you were my daughter, I’d absolutely tell you to freeze your eggs. The doctors’ words echoed in my thoughts. It seemed foolish to disregard the advice of the many doctors whose advice I sought. Still does.

But that’s exactly what I did.

After my eleven-beautiful-follicles appointment, I made a new decision about egg freezing: I stopped trying to decide. Deciding to stop trying to decide was a simpler way of deciding no. Clarity comes when we pivot, change course, leave, let go. Clarity comes when we surrender. Not always, maybe, but often. The act of deciding helps us get where we’re going. Put a stake in the ground and continue on. I realized, finally, it’s not about the eggs. It’s about what the deciding, or the ceasing to decide, yields. So I let go of the notion of a “right” decision and the pressure to make it. After trusting the world more than trusting myself for so long, after years of looking for evidence and answers only out there and almost never in here—I arrived at some in-between state. It’s hazy, uncomfortable, and undeniably real.

Egg freezing is a powerful, if imperfect, technology. It is a worthwhile option for many, many women. But not, I’ve determined at long last, for me.

If money were not an issue and if we knew more about the potential risks of fertility drugs and if I was certain I would use my frozen eggs within five years and if reliable data proved more eggs survived being thawed, I would probably freeze my eggs tomorrow. For now, I’ve determined that—barring some sort of emergency or urgent medical necessity in which I would almost certainly decide to freeze my eggs—the best thing I can do for my ovary and desire to have biological children is to take care of my body, and my heart, as best I can. To stay on the Pill, per my doctors’ instructions, in order to protect my ovary and keep it hibernating. If, when I am ready to become pregnant, I find myself confronting infertility, I may decide to pursue IVF. I will cross that river if and when I come to it. And if I do undergo IVF and I’m not able to have biological children, I can only hope it won’t be the end-all scenario I once imagined it would be. My mother’s words from all those years ago come back to me now: You still would have had kids, she’d said softly, squeezing my hand as I woke up from the surgery that saved my ovary. Even if they’d had to take it out, you would still someday be a mother.

Outside, dark shadows danced against the late afternoon twilight. I cocooned myself in a blanket and gazed out my bedroom window, the ultrasound images next to my pillow. I thought about all I had learned and all I couldn’t yet know—and how I would look back at all this someday, and especially this moment, when I finally accepted that not knowing is okay. How I would remember feeling, as I settled into my early thirties: An entire decade is knocking and I am revising my questions.

—

For a while, I’d sometimes catch myself thinking I still might freeze my eggs. So let me put this journey I have taken to good use in a practical sense. I offer the following thoughts in this spirit.

If I were to freeze my eggs now, here is what I would do: I’d take a few of FertilityIQ’s comprehensive online courses and use its verified reviews to help me decide on a reputable doctor and clinic, one that offers a low-interest finance option and a discount for multiple cycles. I’d strongly consider freezing outside the United States, probably in Europe, for a fraction of the cost. I’d inquire about the clinic’s embryology staff, lab protocols, and pregnancy rates from frozen eggs. I’d research specialty pharmacies before ordering the pricey meds. I’d store my frozen eggs at a clinic that uses TMRW’s storage technology or at a TMRW biorepository, and certainly in a state that was friendly to reproductive choice. I’d go off the Pill—this time, after a lengthy discussion with my OB/GYN—then test my hormone levels with Modern Fertility’s at-home kit before following up with a reproductive endocrinologist. I’d use an online egg freezing predictive calculator, inputting my specific numbers, to gauge how many eggs I might get. If I was in a committed relationship with a person I could see myself having kids with, I’d likely freeze embryos instead of eggs.

Finally—and if you take away anything from this list of recommendations, let it be this—I would not mistake freezing eggs for freezing time. I would do my best to not let my frozen eggs be a sort of Band-Aid, a thinly veiled rationale to postpone confronting the difficult questions that arise in my relationships, in my desire to have children, in my life. Because while egg freezing can spark a positive, powerful psychological shift, it does not guarantee a woman more control over her life. She may believe that it does—Remy, Mandy, and Lauren all felt that way—but while the feeling of assurance is very real indeed, the actual control piece is an illusion. Accepting this makes all the difference.

—

I get that you’re concerned. I understand that you may feel swept up in the glitz and glamour, the potential and the power, the sleek reassurances. I got swept up, too. The perfect storm of ignorance, money, and fear makes this an incredibly alluring world to get lost in. I, too, craved the answers and was worried about not knowing enough, not being prepared for whatever might come next, all of the uncertainties we cannot plan for that alter our trajectory.

I know you want someone or something else to tell you what to do. Unfortunately, there are so many someones and somethings who can and will do just that. Your body says, Tick-tock. Your gynecologist says, Don’t be silly, you’re young. Come back to see me after trying for a year. Your parents say, Haven’t you figured out your career and love life yet? By the time I was your age…Your ex-boyfriend says, Maybe you should’ve just stayed with me. Your social media feeds say, Everyone you know is getting married and having babies and so here is an ad for egg freezing that you will see a thousand times. Your employer says, We’ll pay for it; we’ve got you covered. So go freeze your eggs, keep working, and don’t have kids yet. (Or maybe your work says, Egg freezing? We don’t even cover flu shots.) I know all this is true for you because I lived it, too. I had my own way of weighing the risks and benefits, and so do you. The best we can do is make an informed decision with the facts and knowledge we have, inside of ourselves and out there, available to us to learn about.

Only you can make these determinations about your eggs, your ovaries, and your fertility, both present and future. But it’s not really about the yes/no of egg freezing, is it? It’s about not buying into the notion that your fertility is something to be conquered. It’s about not handing over the power to all the someones and somethings asking you to yield it. It’s about recognizing that weighing the pros and cons is hard, really hard. It’s about saying, For now, no. So that you can be better at saying, Yes, oh yes.

When I set out to write this book, I was determined to arrive at clear answers. My quest turned into something else. For Remy, Mandy, and Lauren, freezing their eggs invited what came next. It helped them be more open, willing, and accepting. Deciding not to did the same for me. Now, I’m giving up on certainty. I’ve stopped trying to crystal-ball my fertility and figure out my possible future of pregnancy, motherhood, and building a family with a partner. I’ve stopped trying to picture the ending.

And yet. I had wanted to report from the other side of a decision many people make and say, yes, you should freeze your eggs, or no, you shouldn’t. Reader, I cannot offer you that. What I can give you instead are signposts for your journey. Murmurings about the side roads I took or almost took. Gentle reminders to loosen your grip on the steering wheel. Use this information to navigate the decisions you are or soon will be facing. Allow this technology and its possibilities to challenge you. Embrace the questions, even when they are anxiety-inducing and uncomfortable. Unseen forces will continue to buffer you, as they did me. See your life as the series of choices that it is. Do not postpone whatever reckoning you are invited into. And, above all else: Give yourself permission to not have all the answers.

I offer up my experience, as a woman and a journalist, navigating this fertile soil.

The science and the story are still unfolding.

Skip Notes

*1 Name has been changed.

*2 Lauren’s made several phone calls attempting to confirm her eggs’ location and gotten nowhere. She has not paid the storage bills, unwilling to give any more money to the clinic, or associated vendor, where her egg freezing cycles were such a nightmare.

Acknowledgments

In many ways, I had to grow up fast to write this book. Now that I’ve written it, what I most want to say is: YAY.

We are who we are, we do what we do, because of the team around us. And while writing a book can be a lonely task, it is not one that can be done alone. This book would not have been possible without the incredible people—family, friends, mentors, teachers, editors—who supported and encouraged me these past several years. I am forever grateful.

I know there’s no way to write these acknowledgments without leaving someone out. If I’ve forgotten a mention, please understand it’s a failure of my cluttered mind, not my heart.

I am immensely thankful to all those I interviewed for their openness and generosity of spirit, especially the women who graciously shared their personal journeys. My deep gratitude to Remy, Mandy, and Lauren, who let me into their lives and their egg freezing experiences, and whom I hope will find that I was fair and true to them in my writing. And to Ben, aka Ponman: I’m so glad you didn’t run away from the table when I told you on our first date about this book and the possibility of you being in it. Thank you for your unwavering belief in journalism and in my work, for your grace, and for introducing me to cheese curds.

I owe more than I can say to my literary agent, Elias Altman, who enthusiastically took on this book and championed it from the beginning. Not every writer is fortunate enough to have an agent who is also a talented editor; I could not ask for a better reader and advocate. Thank you for the reassuring notes of encouragement—still taped to the wall above my desk—and for being a steadfast guide throughout this process. Onward.

My sincerest gratitude to Susanna Porter, a dream editor, for her incisive comments and tireless work helping me wrestle this narrative into shape. Being a first-time author is nerve-racking, and when I stumbled along the way, she met me with boundless patience and compassion. Thank you for the many hours you poured into helping make this book the best it could be.

Many other good people at Ballantine and Penguin Random House worked hard on behalf of this book, especially Cindy Berman, Kim Hovey, Pam Alders, Sue Warga, Carolyn Foley, Brianna Kusilek, Allison Schuster, Robin Schiff, Barbara Bachman, and Anusha Khan. Thank you for all you did to usher this book into the world.

I am so fortunate to have extraordinary teachers and mentors who have guided me along the way. The wonderful professors at New York University’s Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute helped mold me as a young journalist and offered vast wisdom. Profound thanks to Robert Boynton, for his mentorship and continued support; Brooke Kroeger, who encouraged me to pitch what became my first published story about egg freezing; Ted Conover, for his inspiring teachings in immersive reporting; and Perri Klass, who helped me shape this material from graduate school thesis to book proposal. Thank you to Lauren Sandler for her advice and from whom I learned important lessons about both journalism and life. I am deeply grateful to Bud and Beth Warner, Cassie Kircher, Crista Arangala, and Drew Perry at Elon University for shaping me as a writer, a thinker, and a human learning how to make her way in the world. And to Heather Gatley, a powerful early influence.

A great debt is owed to Katherine Zoepf, who saw this book in me before I had the confidence to write it—and without whom it would not exist. Thank you for your invaluable guidance, your friendship, and for making me feel like I had something to say.