Being a surrogate left me traumatised

One woman shares her story of carrying a baby for a couple she barely knew

It was a simple request. ‘Can my cousin be in the birth-plan meeting, as I want her with me during labour?’ I typed into Whatsapp in August 2018. Claire’s* reply was a shock. ‘I’m not comfortable with that.’

Then the accusations began: I’d been unreasonable asking her husband not to be in the birth room; I’d had everything my own way. Then the final blow: Claire told me she – not me – would be the most vulnerable person in the birthing room.

I could feel panic rising. In just five weeks, I was going to have Claire’s baby – something I’d embarked on to do something good. How had it come to this?

My relationship with Claire began in 2015 – my cousin, Sophie*, knew her through work. She and her husband, Ian*, were struggling to have a baby. They had the embryos, but no surrogate. So, even though we’d never met, one day I heard myself saying to Sophie, ‘I’ll do it.’

Keen to help

I was 31, single, and a project manager. I had a daughter, Alex*, then nine, but didn’t want more children.

Two weeks later, Claire and Ian walked into a cafe to meet me. We discussed their journey and why I wanted to be a surrogate. But there was so much we didn’t touch on. Who would be at the birth? How often would we meet? What would happen after the baby was born? It was all either skimmed over or ignored. We briefly discussed the financial side – you can’t pay a surrogate in the UK, except for reasonable expenses.

Ten minutes after I left, my phone pinged. ‘We’d love you to be our surrogate.’ Looking back, it seems insane. I was naive, with a romantic vision of surrogacy: the three of us as a team. That notion blinded me to the warning signs.

Claire sent me a sample surrogacy agreement she’d found on the internet, listing things I could be reimbursed for. I made a rough calculation: time off work, maternity clothes. It came to £11,000. When I told Claire, she said, ‘OK, but I can’t do it if it’s any more.’ I felt a stab of worry – what if something cropped up? But I pushed it away.

The only counselling we had was obligatory sessions at the clinic: I had one, they had one, and we had one together. Topics came up we’d never discussed – what if I miscarried or the baby had a birth defect? ‘Good point,’ Ian said. ‘We’ll have to talk about that.’ But we never did.

Over the next 21 months, we had four failed embryo transfers. It was emotionally draining, especially when the third worked but I miscarried at eight weeks. Claire and Ian waited in another room while I had the scan, and when the nurse returned from telling them the news, I was shocked when she said, ‘They don’t want to see you.’

Ian called five days later. He explained they were upset, and hoped

‘IT WAS ALL SKIMMED OVER’

‘IT WAS LIKE SHE HATED ME’

I was OK. I was emotional, but they’d lost the pregnancy they’d been dreaming of. I knew how devastating it must have been. So I just focused on wanting it to work next time.

Finally, it did. But once I was actually pregnant, something shifted. There were no more weekly meet-ups; they left me to it.

The pregnancy was straightforward. Feeling her move felt lovely, but I didn’t experience the bond I’d had with Alex. I knew she wasn’t mine.

Feeling exposed

The 20-week scan was another turning point. When the nurse pulled my underwear down to my hip bones, showing my pubic hair, I felt totally exposed. I realised how vulnerable I’d be during the birth. I barely knew these people. They were looking at the screen, excited, not even glancing at me. ‘I’m invisible to them,’ I thought. ‘I’m irrelevant.’ The next day, I messaged Claire, explaining I’d feel uncomfortable with Ian in the birthing room. I assumed she would understand, but she didn’t, and things started to unravel. Messages became shorter and more brusque. Apart from medical appointments, we only met twice. One was at Claire’s baby shower, which I had to pay to attend. Then, five weeks before my due date, I realised we hadn’t properly discussed the birth. That’s when I messaged about having Sophie there, and Claire replied, outlining the ways I was failing. She said I was difficult and awkward, making unreasonable demands.

Her message reduced me to tears. I remember thinking, ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Nothing I’m doing here is good enough.’ At 35 weeks, my stress levels were through the roof and I started my maternity leave early. It was like she didn’t see me as a real person with feelings.

To protect my mental health, I requested all communication went through Ian. I went into survival mode, blocking Claire’s number and Facebook. She didn’t react. It wasn’t something I did lightly, but looking back it was the right thing to do. The situation became so stressful I was barely sleeping. Some days it felt like I could hardly breathe.

In the end, I was induced two days after my due date and, despite knowing when it was happening, neither Claire nor Ian made it in time. My birth plan said I wanted her to have the first contact, to have that amazing experience. But it happened so fast that no one read the birth plan. She was put on my chest. I didn’t feel that rush of love I’d felt with Alex. It was more curiosity to finally see her.

When Claire and Ian arrived, they hugged me and, as I was wheeled in to register the birth that afternoon – Claire had left the baby with Ian – I was still thinking, ‘Maybe it will be all right.’ Then I saw the cold look on her face. It was like she hated me.

Once they’d sent the final expenses payment, they blocked me on social media, so I couldn’t see anything about the baby. The hurt was incredible. They’d got what they wanted and now I was cut off. I really thought we’d continue to have contact. Not as close friends, but to see her on Facebook. But as with so many things, we hadn’t discussed it.

I went back to work six weeks afterwards. Not only did I have all the hormones rushing around still, but everyone wanted to talk to me about the baby. Most days, I had to find a quiet office to hide in, so I could keep it together.

I was diagnosed with postnatal depression and PTSD, and had counselling. It helped, but 18 months later, I’m still traumatised. I’ve seen photos of the baby that friends have sent and it physically hurts. I didn’t want to be her mother, but the joy I thought I’d feel at this amazing achievement isn’t there. I just feel used.

Law review

Thankfully, surrogacy laws are being reviewed. At the moment, intended parents have to go through a court process to become the legal parents. The new recommendations say parents will be the legal parents at birth if they and their surrogate have taken independent legal advice, have a written agreement, undertake implication counselling, and work with a regulated surrogacy organisation.

We just winged it, causing a cascade of misunderstandings and pain. If there had been a structure – along with mandatory counselling before, during and after the birth – I’m sure our journey would have been happier and healthier. But, despite the pain, I don’t regret being a surrogate. I helped bring this baby into the world and, for that, I will always feel proud.