When the Last Embryo Isn’t Yours to Carry

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Mira and Steve were in the middle of fertility treatment, but this procedure wasn’t like their other transfer days. Mira wasn’t getting ready for her own transfer, but for her surrogate’s journey. And while it was a day they had been waiting for over a year, Mira noticed she felt more pain than she had ever imagined.

In therapy, she had processed her grief around not carrying this pregnancy—the “this isn’t my body anymore” story, as she would refer to it. But she was caught off guard by the pain of its being her last embryo. “I’ve finally given up on myself.” There would be no more secret hoping. No more fantasies that a miracle could happen. For the first time, she was confronted with the absolute reality that she would never be pregnant.

The Emotional Terrain of Surrogacy

Many factors play into the surrogacy journey, with multiple conversations revolving around the financial aspect,s legal documents, and finding the right match. In Mira’s case, she had prepared herself for most of the emotional aspects she would miss out on, but the complexity of its being her last chance, that her embryo was being transferred into someone else’s body, not her own, was not something she was prepared for. She felt “stupid” for thinking the way she did, for wanting the experience to somehow still be hers.

Loss of the Pregnancy Fantasy

Certain parts of the fertility journey feel too strange, too vulnerable to say out loud. They live in the liminal space where our longing meets our imagination—our private fantasy world. This is where the things we don’t necessarily share with others reside: standing in front of the mirror sideways after drinking a full glass of water, wondering if that’s what our body would look like if we were pregnant. Or rubbing our belly. Or, secretly saving maternity clothes in the back of the closet. These are the secret rituals of imagined motherhood that few ever see. There are so many quiet, vulnerable moments of hope we’re afraid to expose to the world.

So when we have to confront those parts alone, it feels harsh, unforgiving, and we can feel “stupid” for even having those fantasies. And yet, for Mira, this fantasy world was a place she had visited often before the embryo transfer. The grief she named—"I’ve finally given up on myself”—wasn’t just about fertility, though at the time she couldn’t fully name what was happening internally for her.

Finality and Identity Shift

Mira's grief around not carrying the pregnancy had opened a door. Over time, she realized that her sadness, at its core, was about grieving her imagined self, full of hope and experiencing biological motherhood. Letting go of that identity felt deeply destabilizing: The future remained uncertain yet the past had to be released. In this kind of transition, sorrow and hope had to walk hand in hand with no clear path or resolution. What Mira had to remember was that this was still her motherhood story, even though it was unfolding in someone else.

What remained true? How could she stay connected to her role as a mother even when the pregnancy wasn’t happening in her own body? There were many stages to uncovering these truths. Time, frustration, and tolerance were all tested. Mira had to learn to trust without control and to parent from a distance. She had to release all signs of internally knowing her baby was safe. There was no physical connection to guide her—only quiet faith and presence.

She spoke about “walking on coals”—how difficult it was to feel joy, pain, and jealousy without wanting to completely shut down or run away. There were also moments when Mira had to speak up—about the birth plan, medical choices, and boundaries—even when it felt awkward and she didn’t want to. Mothering meant protecting, even through unease.

This version of mothering didn’t include rubbing her belly or admiring her profile in the mirror. It didn’t look like what she had seen happen to others—the way cars pause to let a visibly pregnant woman cross the road. Nor did it include the small gestures: someone giving up a seat on the bus or offering to carry her groceries to the car. None of this was hers.

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When we reflected on her journey together, it was like iron being forged in fire. The red-hot heat made her malleable—but did not melt her. She was hammered into shape by this process, aligning with her own internal grain structure. From this, she emerged.

Preparing for the arrival of her baby was a quiet act of devotion. Making hard decisions that created and protected the child’s life at the cost of Mira's own comfort was a sign of true, unconditional love. She learned to refute the lie that biology was the only proof of motherhood. What remained true was her desire to love, her capacity to mother, and her unwavering commitment. Her ability to endure turned out to be greater than she had ever imagined.