The Unexpected Grief of Discarding Your Frozen Eggs

In 2014, freezing my eggs felt like a groundbreaking act of empowerment. Technology seemed to provide an insurance policy that preserved the possibility of future motherhood. Yet I did not anticipate the emotional landscape that I would face a decade later, as a scientific intervention became a personal meditation on time, money, and unfulfilled dreams.

I always assumed I would have children. I adored my young cousins, babysat from a young age, and earned money in college by working in a church nursery. Yet giving birth was never an all-consuming need. Unlike some high school friends, I never shoved a pillow under my shirt to see how I would look pregnant. Nor did I feel compelled by a ticking biological clock.

By my mid-30s, I had achieved professional success and felt ready to start a family. An older colleague's warnings about diminishing fertility prompted me to check my hormone levels. Despite looking young, the tests revealed that my body was indeed aging—my egg count already below average. The American Society for Reproductive Medicine had recently deemed egg freezing no longer experimental, leading a range of news outlets to extol its virtues and some companies to cover the costs. Apart from the steep price tag, freezing my eggs felt like an obvious choice.

My then-boyfriend was uncertain about marriage and fatherhood. If our relationship ended, I did not want to resent him for wasting my waning years of fertility. If it lasted, I figured the eggs could be used for a second child—or our first, if needed. By the time I started injecting hormones into my belly, we had broken up.The doctor retrieved a disappointing three eggs, far short of the eight to 15 range recommended for a future pregnancy attempt.  

When I did a second cycle, I was newly dating a man who was enthusiastic about marriage and kids. He even flew from Chicago to Washington DC to pick me up after the retrieval, though he wryly observed that he may be helping another man father my children someday. The result of my second cycle was a marginally better five eggs. 

In my early 40s, I remained hopeful about finding a life partner and thawing my aspirant offspring for an in vitro fertilization attempt. I ruled out having a baby alone with donor sperm, although I admire those who have chosen that path to motherhood. I filled my life with meaningful work, good friends, and travel adventures. I became the quintessential “cool aunt,” showering my niece and nephew with gifts from around the world, and enjoyed time with my friends’ kids. 

Now 49, I feel my window for having children has closed. It was not a deliberate decision; it just never happened and I have accepted that reality. When I recently met a friend’s newborn son, I relished baby snuggles and his intoxicating scent. But her kitchen filled with bottles and stories of sleepless nights affirmed my contentment with an independent lifestyle. 

And yet every spring, anxiety grips me when the annual letter arrives from the fertility clinic asking if I want to renew my egg storage. In recent years, a demanding job left no time for reflection, so I simply mailed a check to postpone the decision. When the letter arrived last year, I had just left my position and was embarking on a year of international travel. A friend encouraged me to pay the fee and use the time to contemplate my future. Now, as I begin a new job overseas, I am still agonizing over my eggs. Despite having accepted—even embraced—my child-free life, I resist telling the clinic to dispose of them. 

Last year, I cleaned out a storage unit containing childhood treasures that my parents had saved when they downsized over a decade ago. Being sentimental, I kept more cards, books, and photos than is probably warranted. Yet in a burst of pre-travel productivity, I purged significantly—including my fourth-grade Trapper Keeper. If my parents had thrown it away years ago, I never would have thought about it. And it serves no practical purpose in my current life. But I belatedly realized that I liked knowing it existed and now wish that I had kept it. 

It is a seemingly trivial comparison, but the experience gives me pause. Having saved my eggs for so long, will I regret letting them go? And is there a scenario, like meeting a new partner, in which I would still use them? I thought I had accepted years ago that I would not have a child. Yet the prospect of destroying my eggs has unexpectedly forced me to grieve or perhaps, finally accept, a future that looks different from what I imagined. My eggs represent both what could have been and what could still be. Rather than passively accept that I never got pregnant, as I have to date, I must now actively eliminate the last chance that I could.

Of course, I have not been paying for the certainty of a pregnancy but the possibility of one. There is no guarantee that my paltry egg collection would even thaw, form an embryo, implant, or result in a baby. Sometimes this makes me question the sizable financial investment as well as whether I should continue throwing good money after bad. Despite the initial hype, recent studies have found that only six to 11% of women use frozen eggs, often getting pregnant naturally or using fresh eggs for in vitro fertilization. And at a certain stage, biology still makes the final decision—even with frozen younger eggs, pregnancy in older women can carry additional risks.

Although the prospect of discarding these eggs feels unexpectedly profound, there is no ceremony for this moment—just a simple authorization form allowing lab technicians to "ethically discard" what once held my most intimate hope. Friends have suggested donating my eggs, but this does not resolve my dilemma. I froze my eggs with the expectation that I would raise my own child so I do not feel comfortable giving them to a stranger, assuming they were even viable. If I already had a baby, I would have realized that future and consequently feel less attached to these unused eggs. 

Here is the truth I wish someone had told me a decade ago: in addition to the financial cost, there is an emotional toll—in the form of lingering hope and unfulfilled potential—to maintaining frozen eggs. If I could go back to 2014, would I make the same choice? Probably. I appreciated the peace of mind and sense of control. However, I now realize that was based on the assumption that I would eventually have a baby. I wish I had also known the psychological weight of my unused eggs would become a source of grief.