Egg freezing is often packaged as empowerment through planning, but in reality it’s an exercise in surrender. To timing, to biology, to a version of your body you don’t entirely control. From hormonal chaos to a quiet, creeping loneliness, and from statistical hope to a more complex, bittersweet sense of agency, here’s what fertility actually feels like.

Did you ever think about the people who bought Birkin bags in the 90s? The style debuted in ’84, but for years it hovered somewhere around the $2,000 mark – a feat of leatherwork, certainly, but not yet the near-mythical asset it’s since become. Today, those same bags, now nudging well past the $30,000 threshold, seem to appreciate by the hour. Securing one in a rare colour is practically a sport, and the whole ritual hinges on relationships: the right sales associate, the right timing, the right whisper of availability. It’s part patience, part strategy, part blind faith that, eventually, your name will be called. Back then, though, what now reads as a five-figure investment could quietly be yours for a fraction of the price.

That’s what’s running through my mind as I sit in the waiting room at The Evewell West London clinic, about to discuss freezing my eggs.

Because, strangely enough, Birkins and egg freezing aren’t worlds apart. Not in the glossy, champagne-fuelled sense – there’s nothing particularly chic about hormone injections or 7am clinic appointments. But in the quieter calculus that underpins both. The foresight. The long game. The understanding that what you’re investing in isn’t just a possession, but a future version of yourself who might be grateful you did.

We’re often told a Birkin is more than a bag. It’s an asset, if you will. Something you secure now for later, whether that’s financial return or the simple satisfaction of having it when the moment calls. Egg freezing exists in a far less Instagrammable corner of that same mindset: a deeply personal, occasionally overwhelming, but undeniably pragmatic decision to hedge against time.

Strip it back, and both hinge on the same seductive promise: that if you play it right, your future self might thank you for thinking ahead. Anyway, delusion parked. Here are 26 things I learned during one of the most humbling experiences of my life – freezing my eggs, not being denied a bag by a sales associate.

A good consultation changes everything

My first appointment at The Evewell was long, calm, and genuinely educational. I learned more in that room than I did in all biology classes I’ve taken combined. Instead of being rushed through scary numbers/stats, I was walked through what they meant, how they interacted, and, crucially, what they did not predict. It was the difference between spiralling and feeling steady.

One thing that stood out immediately at The Evewell West London clinic was how human (and unclinical) the experience felt. The doctors took real time to explain everything – not just what was happening, but why. No question ever felt silly or rushed. I had regular check-ins from the nursing team, clear guidance at every stage, and a sense that someone was always paying attention and genuinely cared about my mental state and overall well-being. I never felt confused, dismissed, or alone in the process. Which, given how emotionally loaded egg freezing can be, is invaluable. You could feel that the team genuinely cared about outcomes, not just protocols, and that kind of support changes the entire experience.

My clinic often emphasised that their job isn’t just to retrieve eggs, but to leave patients with hope, and to make sure this process doesn’t feel like it dictates your future success of having children. That perspective mattered more than I expected.

AMH is not a verdict, and 35 is not the cliff edge when it comes to fertility

AMH stands for Anti-Müllerian Hormone – though if you’ve gone anywhere near the rabbit hole of ovarian reserve, you’ll likely already know that. In loose terms, it’s an indication of how many eggs you have left. But AMH is a data point, not a prophecy. On its own, it can feel quietly terrifying; in context, it becomes information. What shifted things for me is understanding how much of the fertility narrative is driven by cultural panic rather than clinical reality. Fertility doesn’t fall off a cliff at 35, despite how often we’re led to believe it does. The more meaningful decline in egg quality tends to edge in closer to 38 – which, reframed properly, makes your thirties feel less like a countdown and more like a window.

You can test your fertility while on the pill, but coming off it can help

You don’t need to stop hormonal contraception to start learning about your fertility. Clinics can interpret AMH and baseline scans while you’re on the pill. That said, many recommend coming off it before starting a cycle, giving your ovaries space to communicate without synthetic interference – ideally for a few months, if you can.

There are two main egg-freezing protocols, and to me, they felt very different

There’s a short protocol and a long protocol. Most clinics start people with the short one, which begins injections shortly after your period arrives. I ended up needing to do 2 rounds (that’s half a Birkin, yes) in order to get the goal number of frozen eggs I was after, so I ended up doing one of each. Starting with the short protocol, then moving to the long protocol for my second round. This gave me a real understanding of how a clinic’s strategy, pacing and overall approach can shape the egg freezing experience and results, and why it’s so important to research clinics thoroughly. Including their published outcome data, protocols and patient support, to choose one with strong, transparent success rates and a care style that fits your needs.

The short protocol is efficient; the long one is… a marathon

In my first cycle, I started injections a day or two after my period: one injection every evening at the same time, then a morning injection added a few days later to prevent ovulation. The long protocol, on the other hand, involved suppressing ovulation for around a week and a half before my period even arrived (you are basically put into a menopausal state, which was…interesting), then continuing that alongside the evening stimulation injections. Nearly four weeks of needles later, I personally had better results with the second round – though whether that was strategy, timing, or luck is impossible to know. Control, I learned, is mostly an illusion here.

No two cycles feel the same, even in the same body

My first cycle felt like a walk in the park. My second came with more noticeable symptoms – more fatigue and more bloating – but still very manageable. The contrast surprised me since I assumed the 2nd round would be a carbon copy of the first. It was a reminder again that each cycle is its own experiment, and nothing about this process is predictable!

Your body sets the schedule, not you

Some people start injections immediately after their baseline scan; others are told to wait another cycle. The decision is made entirely on blood tests and scans. This is usually the first moment you realise the process doesn’t care about your calendar, your plans, or your preference for control.

The real challenge isn’t the injections, it’s having no control over an outcome

I always assumed the most daunting part of this process would be injecting myself with a needle every day. What I didn’t anticipate was how difficult it would be to relinquish control over an outcome you’re investing so much time, emotion (and a significant amount of money) into. You can follow every instruction perfectly and still have a cycle that doesn’t respond as hoped. How your body reacts is largely beyond your control, and learning to sit with that uncertainty has been one of the hardest lessons of the entire process.

You are monitored constantly, and that’s a good thing

Every two to three days, you’re back at the clinic for blood tests and scans. They’re tracking follicle growth, hormone levels, adjusting medication, and watching closely for OHSS (Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome). It’s reassuring, but by the end you’re bruised, needle-weary, and very ready to stop being poked.

During scans, they’re measuring follicles – not eggs

This was another eye-opening lesson that made me wonder whether I’d completely tuned out in sex-ed, or if the female reproductive system is just seriously overlooked in school. On scans, doctors can only see follicles – fluid-filled sacs that might contain a mature egg. You don’t actually know how many mature eggs you have until after retrieval, so mid-cycle numbers are just estimates, not guarantees.

Egg freezing doesn’t increase your egg supply. It changes how your regular cycle plays out.

I initially thought stimulation medication would somehow create more eggs than what showed up on my baseline scan (this lack of education is what led to my shock and disappointment by my third scan). In reality, each month, multiple follicles begin developing, but usually only one becomes dominant and the rest are lost. Stimulation meds simply prevent that natural drop-off, allowing more of that month’s follicles to mature instead of disappearing.

Egg freezing basically felt like herding sheep

You can have a lot of follicles, but if they’re all growing at wildly different speeds, they don’t all make it to the finish line. The goal is to get as many follicles above roughly 14mm as possible, because that increases the likelihood they contain a mature, viable egg. For me, this is where the difference between the short and long protocol really showed up. The long protocol helped “herd the sheep” a bit better by giving the clinic more control over growth timing. That said, it’s a fine dance for your doctor to manage – push stimulation too long and you risk losing the bigger follicles or ovulating altogether. 

Mid-cycle reality checks can suck

By your second or third scan, you usually have a fairly clear picture of how many follicles are responding. If that number doesn’t match your expectations, it can hit hard. During my first egg freezing cycle, I wasn’t prepared for this moment and realised how little most of us are taught about how unpredictable fertility actually is. This was when I realised I was going to need to do a 2nd round if I wanted to hit my goal figure.

One round is often not enough, and that’s normal

Depending on age, response, and how many children you hope for, one round may not feel like enough. Getting a high number of eggs in a single cycle is less common than most people assume. Knowing this early helps manage expectations and emotions. 

You will learn statistics you can’t unlearn

How many eggs you freeze roughly translates to your chances of success, and what “success” actually means. At The Evewell clinic, they explained that, for my age, freezing around 15 eggs would give me about an 80% chance of achieving one live birth. This number will change from person to person, and accounts for the drop-off at each step of the IVF process: not every egg survives thawing, not every fertilises, and not every embryo implants and becomes a pregnancy. Freezing good quality eggs is just the beginning. Once you understand this, you can’t unknow it – and for me, it brought a sudden anxiety about the future, quietly shifting how I think about time, relationships, and all the unknowns that lie ahead.

Egg freezing doesn’t mean weight gain, acne, or months of hormonal disruption 

I didn’t experience weight gain or acne at all. What I did experience was bloating and water retention, mostly after the trigger shot (36 hours before your procedure) and in the days following retrieval from swollen ovaries. Some days you feel energised and sharp. Others you feel foggy, blunt or emotional. None of it is permanent and for me it felt no worse than a typical premenstrual phase. Once my next period arrived, everything settled. I’d expected the effects to linger for months. I felt back to baseline within 10–14 days.

Egg freezing is expensive, but worth the investment 

In London, each round can cost roughly £5,000–£7,000 depending on the clinic and how much medication your body needs. What I found hardest was that medication costs can’t be predicted upfront, because dosages are adjusted in real time based on how your follicles respond. You also have to pay a yearly storage fee, which is around £350 a year depending on the clinic. Financial uncertainty is part of the process, whether we like it or not…yet another element that cannot be controlled!

You can move your eggs later if you decide to move cities

If you relocate or decide to pursue IVF at a different clinic or you decide to move countries, your eggs can be transported. You’re not locked into one place or one future plan, which was reassuring for a commitment-phobe like me who always likes to keep her options open. 

Lifestyle restrictions are real. Everything is allowed… except the things you want

During the process, you’re advised to drink lots of water, eat well, avoid alcohol, limit coffee, skip workouts (to avoid ovarian torsion), take supplements and not have sex. None of it is forever, but when everything is off-limits at once, I started suddenly wanting exactly what I couldn’t have. Never have I wanted to work-out or have a dirty martini so badly in my life. 

The lack of freedom can feel claustrophobic

Because you’re at the clinic every two to three days, travel is basically impossible. You’re also advised not to travel on a plane for about a week after retrieval to reduce clotting risk. By my second round – after weeks of injections and grey London skies – I was desperate for a change of scenery or for a fun girls night out involving alcohol. Not because I hated the process, but because I missed spontaneity and free will. 

The process becomes oddly empowering

The first few injections feel intimidating – this was honestly one of the things I was most nervous about, and it probably took me 45 minutes to psych myself up for the very first one. By week two, though, you’re giving them confidently and quickly, sometimes even in restaurant bathrooms or while doing your red-light therapy mask. Fear turns into routine faster than you’d expect, and there’s something quietly empowering about facing and overcoming it.

Yes, the estrogen glow exists. Briefly

I finally understand what people mean by “pregnancy glow”. It comes from the effects from increased estrogen levels and for a short window, your skin looks incredible, your body composition looks great and your face feels lifted. Enjoy it. A few days later, you may look in the mirror and wonder why you look drained and how you got so bloated. Every day is different! 

The retrieval procedure itself is, actually, pretty chill

No, you’re not bed-bound for a week. But that doesn’t mean you’re invincible either. The retrieval itself is short and relatively gentle on the body (at least in my experience). That said, trying to schedule back-to-back meetings across central London the same afternoon is a rookie mistake. I learned that the hard way, and my body reminded me two days later once the pain meds wore off. You can expect to feel groggy from the sedation, though personally, I felt like I’d had the best power nap of my life and was actually quite energised afterward. It’s different for everyone. As for the discomfort, imagine stronger-than-usual period cramps – still manageable, but noticeable. From my experience with both rounds, the soreness seemed to depend on how many follicles were retrieved (I had more eggs taken the second time, and it was correspondingly a bit more uncomfortable).

You return to baseline faster than you expect

This surprised me. My period arrived about 10 days after retrieval, and with it came a sense of normality. Within 2 weeks of the procedure, I felt like myself again, physically and emotionally. The bloating goes away after your next period. 

The post-retrieval ‘comedown’ sounds scarier than it is

Clinics warn you about a potential emotional comedown after retrieval because of the sudden drop in hormone levels. I didn’t notice a significant mood crash or emotional low beyond what I’d expect in a grey London winter – if anything, it felt more like seasonal low mood than anything hormonal. Everyone’s experience is different, but this part was far less dramatic than I’d been led to expect, which is a good thing!

Egg freezing is not a 100% guarantee insurance plan

It can be tempting to think of egg freezing as an insurance policy. And in some ways, it is. But it’s important to understand the reality: it’s not a guarantee. It’s a way of improving your odds and taking control where you can. There are biological variables at every stage, and even perfectly frozen, good-quality eggs don’t bypass how the universe can decide things will unfold for you.

You come out changed, and that’s not a bad thing

Egg freezing reshapes how you think about time, choice, and your body. You don’t leave the same person you arrived as. And honestly, that might be the most valuable part. Once the process ends, what lingers is a sense of having done something hard and self-directed all on your own. There’s relief, perspective, and a surprising amount of pride.