I froze my eggs alone at 37. No one prepared me for how that would feel

I was standing in my Brooklyn kitchen on the second night of injections, trying to hype myself up. My medications were lined up on the counter like a high-stakes science project. As an entrepreneur and avid runner, I’m familiar with the concept of short-term discomfort for long-term gain. But man, there’s a specific kind of discomfort when it comes to injecting yourself with fertility drugs—especially when you’re the person who usually looks the other way when a doctor approaches you with a needle.

I took a breath and thought: I’ve got this. Then, my thumb slipped.

I watched, frozen, as a few drops of the medication (which may as well be liquid gold) that I had just spent thousands of dollars on beaded at the tip of the needle and fell onto the floor. Panic ensued (understatement). I felt like I was failing a test I hadn’t even been given the study guide for. After injecting the rest anyway, an angry black-and-blue bruise bloomed on my skin.

In that moment, the “empowered woman” narrative I’d been feeding myself evaporated. I felt small, isolated, and overwhelmed by a thousand questions with no one standing there to answer them.

It wasn’t the sting of the needle that hurt; it was the realization that in this specific, heavy moment, I was entirely on my own. This is the part they don’t put in glossy clinic brochures: the quiet, messy reality of being a single woman in her 30s, holding a syringe with Olivia Dean playing in the background, just trying to keep her future intact.

The walk home that changed everything

For years, I was the woman who said she wasn’t going to freeze her eggs. I felt in total control of my timeline. I told myself that if motherhood was meant to happen, it would happen “naturally.” But control’s a fragile thing.

The shift didn’t happen in a doctor’s office; it happened on a sidewalk last summer. I had spent the evening with a close friend and her young daughter. I watched the effortless, quiet intimacy of their connection—the way her daughter reached for her hand without looking, the way they understood each other without words. This felt more like a deep soul-level realization than a biological-clock-ticking sort of moment.

On the saunter home to my apartment that night, I cried. Not because I felt behind or “less than,” but because I realized I’d been lying to myself about what I might want someday. I came to terms with the fact that I was hiding behind my professional success and busy schedule to avoid the vulnerability of admitting that I wanted the option of that connection for myself. The “what if” finally became louder than the “not yet.”

The financial ugly cry and giving myself the green light

That said, deciding to do it and being able to afford it are two very different hurdles. As a single-person LLC, I don’t have a corporate wellness perk or an outstanding insurance plan covering the $14,000+ price tag. I felt a weird mix of guilt and resentment—wondering why I’d waited so long and why the barrier to entry for my future was so steep just because I worked for myself.

That financial stress peaked when a pharmacy sent me a quote that was accidentally triple the actual cost. I looked at the number on my screen—a number that felt like a ransom for my future kids—and I broke down at my desk. Like, a full-on ugly cry. It felt like the world was being cruelly insensitive to the weight of the investment I was trying to make. Despite the cost, I knew that the “click” I felt that night walking home was my green light. I was finally choosing me. And I was ready to put my money where my goals were.

Initially, the decision felt like a power move, like I was an athlete in training. I was checking boxes, organizing my supplements, and feeling proud of myself for taking charge. There’s a specific kind of boss energy that comes with trying to build your own safety net. I was the one doing the work, making the appointments, and literalizing my hope. For a few days, I felt invincible.

The grief and loneliness of a body (and life) in transition

As a 15-time marathoner and self-proclaimed gym rat, my body’s my instrument. I know its rhythms, its strengths, and its limits. But within just a few days of starting the injections, I didn’t recognize it. During those three weeks, I felt out of sorts, walking through Brooklyn feeling heavy, bloated, and disconnected.

Pausing my training schedule was a mental battle I wasn’t entirely prepared for. I knew ahead of time that movement would look different over the freezing cycle. My doctor let me know that by day four, I would have to stick to low-impact movement and avoid any twisting at the waist, which meant a lot of walking and a temporary pause on my go-to barbell work. So now in addition to growing follicles, I was also tasked with growing a new, uncomfortable patience with a body that no longer felt like mine to push. I had to learn to exist in a body that was working toward a different kind of marathon—one that required stillness instead of speed. I kept telling myself: This is temporary. You can do this.

Then there’s the loneliness, which seemed to hit hardest in the mundane moments. I remember sitting on the ground eating dinner at my living room coffee table one night, staring at the salmon on my plate in front of me, and just weeping. It felt so strange and isolating to plan for a “someday” family that doesn’t exist yet, with a partner I haven’t met, while navigating the very real present-day bruises on my stomach. It’s hard to explain the weight of doing all the emotional labor for a future that is still just a maybe.

Navigating the emotional rollercoaster

I was warned that my hormones might be all over the place. That I might be a sobbing mess for fourteen days straight. That’s because some of the medications used in the egg retrieval process can come with a range of physical and emotional side effects.

I actually felt relatively stable and even-keeled throughout, but the anticipation of a breakdown was its own kind of stress. I was constantly checking in with myself: Is this a normal thought, or are these the hormones talking?

Even if you’re spared the mental side effects, the physiological effects are massive. Your ovaries are quite literally taking up more physical space in your body (I can only liken this feeling to what I imagine a dog pregnant with six or more puppies feels like). I kept telling myself: It’s OK if your emotions need more space, too.

But amidst all of this, there were glimmers of profound connection, too. The friends who texted every morning to ask how the “girls” (my follicles) were doing. The ones who didn’t ask “when are you done?” but instead asked “what do you need for dinner tonight?” I realized that while I was doing this for a potential future family, I was being carried by my current one. My community became the partner I didn’t have in the room.

The aftermath and the exhale

The day of my procedure went pretty seamlessly. I arrived at my midtown clinic around 7:30 a.m. after taking a quiet walk through Bryant Park to ground myself. Within an hour, I was on the table surrounded by my doctor, embryologist, anesthesiologist, and two nurses. Knocked out within 30 seconds of entering the room, the next thing I remember is sipping electrolytes in the recovery room.

My mom had come in from Connecticut, and I cried the second I saw her, feeling like I was finally able to allow someone else to carry the load and ask questions for a bit. The doctor came in shortly after with amazing news: We had retrieved the amount of eggs I hoped for. The wave of relief I felt is hard to put into words.

Then, the “both” feelings set in. I was grateful, for sure. I also had a sobering sense of perspective. I’m acutely aware that my story is one of the “lucky” ones. I know women who have gone through three or four cycles, drained their savings, and endured months of hormonal upheaval only to get a fraction of the result I got in one.

And though I finally felt like I could exhale a sigh of relief, I was also aware that this retrieval kicks off another sort of timeline. Sure, I have these great eggs from my 37-year-old self, but there’s still some uncertainty around how long I could safely use them and what that outcome would be.

Doing the hard thing

If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of it—the bruises, the pharmacy calls, the dinners-for-one—I want you to know something. This process is hard. Not just “clinic visit” hard, but “redefining your entire future by yourself” hard.

Looking back, I am profoundly proud of myself. Not just because of the successful numbers or the “maybe someday” plan now sitting in a freezer, but because I stopped lying to myself. I stared down the financial fear, the physical discomfort, and the solo nights. I decided that my future was worth the effort.

To the woman holding the needle: You aren’t just freezing eggs. You are performing an act of radical self-love. You are telling your future self that she matters. And whatever happens next, that decision to show up for yourself is the real win. You’re doing the hard thing, and you’re doing it beautifully.