Thinking about international surrogacy? Here’s what to expect

I still remember the moment our second fertility specialist in Australia told us that surrogacy was our best chance of having a baby. After six years of infertility, several failed and cancelled IVF cycles (due to my thin endometrium lining), and two pregnancy losses, I felt like the ground had shifted beneath me. I had also never met a surrogate, or anyone who’d had children through surrogacy, and I didn’t know what to expect. And while it felt overwhelming at first, surrogacy was an amazing and life changing experience. Because without surrogacy, we wouldn’t have our beautiful son.

Starting the surrogacy path

Once we accepted that surrogacy was our next step, we began researching international options. We spoke with several agencies in the United States. We chose a boutique agency because we instantly connected with the owner and appreciated how hands‑on she was. She guided us through everything — matching us with a surrogate, recommending IVF clinics and lawyers, and helping us understand the logistical, and also emotional, components.

When she sent us two surrogate profiles, I remember feeling a mix of excitement and fear. We Skyped with one of them, Leigha, and within minutes, the anxiety melted away. Talking to Leigha felt like catching up with an old friend. She and her husband Josh were warm and kind and put us at ease right away. That first conversation set the tone for everything that followed.

Building a relationship across the world

Because we were doing international surrogacy, and Australia to the USA is a long way, communication was so important. Early on, we talked openly about what kind of relationship we wanted. We all agreed we wanted a genuine and ongoing friendship, not just a transactional arrangement. Six years later, that bond is still strong.

We also discussed how we’d stay in touch during the pregnancy. Leigha is a wonderful communicator, and not a single day went by without her sending updates through WhatsApp or Marco Polo. We also Skyped into every appointment and scan. One of my favourite memories is when Leigha suggested we record ourselves reading a children’s story so she could play it to her belly each day. Knowing Spencer was hearing our voices before he was even born meant the world to us.

Navigating the practical steps

Alongside the emotional journey, there were many practical steps. We worked with a fertility lawyer who helped us navigate contracts, escrow accounts, and the pre‑birth order — a legal document in the USA that recognises intended parents before the baby is born. We transported our embryos from Australia and worked with the Utah Fertility Center for the IVF transfer. We did the screening process that involved blood tests and medical checks. Finally, we all had mandatory counselling which proved invaluable as we talked through to what expect and anything that was on our minds.

Our first transfer failed. The second resulted in a pregnancy, but we lost our baby around nine weeks due to a sub‑chronic haematoma. It was devastating. Leigha could have walked away at this point, but she was determined to help us. A true angel. Our third transfer (and final one in our contract) worked and nine months later, our rainbow baby was born.

The birth of our son

We travelled to Utah for the birth and had adjoining rooms at the hospital. We had all agreed beforehand that we would be in the delivery room, that my husband Ryan would cut the cord, and that I would have the first skin on skin contact. When Spencer was born, the room filled with tears — relief, gratitude, and so much joy. It was one of the most profound moments of our lives.

The night before we flew home, Leigha gave us a scrapbook she had made documenting our entire journey. From the embryo transfer to the positive pregnancy test to the day Spencer arrived, it was all in there. It remains one of my most treasured possessions. We gave her a necklace engraved with Spencer’s initials, a small symbol of our gratitude for the enormous gift she had given us.

Coming home

Three weeks after Spencer’s birth, we returned to Australia. With the help of our lawyer, we secured his USA passport and citizenship, and once home, we completed the process for his Australian citizenship and passport. Everything went smoothly.

Surrogacy gave us our son. It gave us a family. If you’re considering surrogacy and feeling overwhelmed, I understand. I was there too. But I also know how beautiful and life‑changing the journey can be.

“Just relax”: How to navigate unsolicited advice

It still amazes me how many people, with zero medical expertise, feel compelled to offer unsolicited advice. During our infertility journey, I soon learned that any sentence that starts with “you just” is never good. I lost count of how many times I heard, “Just relax.” I also heard: “You just need a big night out”, “You just need a holiday”, “Just adopt” and the classic, “It’ll happen when you stop trying.” And of course, everyone knew someone who stopped IVF and magically fell pregnant. I’ve yet to meet this unicorn, but apparently, they’re out there.

Infertility is a reproductive disease, a medical condition.

Relaxing is not a medical cure. Millions of people worldwide experience infertility for a range of medical reasons. And let’s not forget that forty per cent of infertility cases are due to male factor. Yet when a couple struggles to conceive, the assumption almost always lands on the woman. I often wonder how many men have been told to, “Just relax.” Hardly any is my guess.

Our son was born through gestational surrogacy because of my thin endometrium lining. The endometrium — the inner lining of the uterus — is essential for implantation and sustaining a pregnancy. After years of failed transfers and pregnancy losses, our second IVF specialist delivered the hard truth: thin linings are rare, often genetic, and usually impossible to treat. Surrogacy was our strongest chance of having a baby.

But I wasn’t ready to let go of the idea of carrying a pregnancy myself. So I tried everything: acupuncture, Chinese medicine, special diets, medications, supplements and even a stem cell procedure. Nothing worked. And while our specialist knew these approaches were unlikely to help (aside from the stem cell option), he also knew I needed to reach that understanding myself.

So why is unsolicited advice such an issue?

Because it made me feel awful. It made me feel like it was my fault. Even though I knew — then and now — that infertility is outside my control, self-blame creeps in when you’re in the thick of it.

Before my diagnosis, people often described me as calm and balanced. At one workplace farewell event, a colleague said, “Has anyone ever seen Kirst flustered? I haven’t. She’s one of the most measured and patient people in our team.” Measured, steady, patient — not exactly the traits of someone incapable of relaxing. I’ve known friends with infertility who are some of the most resilient, grounded people I’ve ever met. And I’ve known anxious, highly strung people who have fallen pregnant without trying. Why? Because the two are not related.

In my book This is Infertility, Dr Russell Foulk puts it perfectly: “People will say, ‘It was easy for me to get pregnant, just stop thinking about it, stop stressing about it.’ Which is really difficult information to get. It’s like if you’re diagnosed with cancer and someone tells you to stop thinking about it or get past the stress and you’ll get better — which is a ridiculous concept.”

My advice? Advocate for yourself.

I wish I’d done it sooner. Eventually, when someone offered “advice,” I started responding with facts: Infertility is a reproductive disease that affects millions worldwide. And on bolder days, I would say: “I’m not sure how relaxed women in war‑torn countries are. They fall pregnant every day,” or “Relaxing is not a medical cure. Imagine telling someone with cancer to ‘just relax’ and they would be healed. It would be hurtful and insulting. Infertility is no different.”

Like most medical conditions, infertility is indiscriminate and outside your control. It is not your fault. And the strength, resilience, and determination people show on the path to parenthood is extraordinary.

*Also featured in Wish for a Baby Australia

The weight of pregnancy announcements

A friend called me in tears today. “Yet another friend just told me she’s pregnant” she cried. My friend has been doing IVF for years, but this friend fell pregnant quickly and easily. It hit her like a punch to the chest. “It’s not fair. It only took her a couple of months.” I understood instantly. Her pain took me straight back to the years before we finally welcomed our son through gestational surrogacy. I remember every pregnancy announcement from that time with absolute clarity. It didn’t matter whether it was a work colleague, a relative or a friend – there was always someone. One year, four of my close friends were all due with their second babies at the same time. At Christmas, no less. And every one of them had started trying for their first child after we had already begun our journey. None of it felt fair.  

Each announcement was its own kind of heartbreak. It was a relentless emotional roller coaster, and during every round of treatment, one thought screamed through my mind: When will it be our turn?

I felt sad, angry, upset, and yes – jealous. Jealously is a rotten emotion but talk to anyone going through infertility, and they will tell you they’ve felt it. Many times. It sits right alongside profound sadness. With every announcement, I cried. Sometimes I sobbed for hours.

My close friends were always gentle and supportive. They told me privately before sharing their news publicly, and I could feel their empathy – and their nervousness – every time. Some dreaded the conversation so much that one friend even cried while telling me their happy news. And while the sting of jealously was always there, I was genuinely happy for them too. They weren’t getting pregnant to hurt me. They wanted a family as deeply as I did. It’s just that for some people, building a family is easy. For others, it’s incredibly hard and painfully unfair.

Infertility is hard. It’s all consuming. When you’re in the thick of it, all you see and hear are pregnancy announcements. It feels like everyone is pregnant except you. After one of our losses, I stopped going to the supermarket because every aisle seemed filled with glowing pregnant women or parents with babies. It was too much.

What helped me cope:

·      Acknowledge your feelings. They’re valid. And know that’s it’s OK to not be OK.

·      Feelings can co-exist. You can be happy for someone else and devastated for yourself at the same time. All feelings are valid.

·      Cry when you need to. A good cry was often the only thing that helped me breathe again. It was therapeutic.   

·      Talk to someone about how you are feeling. Whether it’s someone else going through infertility and IVF; the #ttc community; a fertility coach; or a counsellor. Sharing the weight can help.

·      Prioritise self-care. Be kind to yourself and do something just for you, something you enjoy. For me, that meant long walks, a massage or losing myself in a good TV series.

·      Meditate. If it works for you, meditation can really help. There are some fantastic meditations through @thisisalicerose (Meditation for pregnancy announcements). I also find meditation apps like Calm and Smiling Mind are helpful.

·      Take a break from social media. Early on in our IVF and surrogacy journey, I deactivated my Facebook account. It was liberating. I was tired of seeing one pregnancy announcement after the other. It was too much. I remained on Instagram but during the harder times, I limited my use. 

If you have ever felt this way, please don’t add guilt on top of everything else. It is completely human to feel sad, angry, jealous or overwhelmed. You’re navigating something incredibly difficult and deeply unfair. For anyone struggling with a pregnancy announcement right now, be kind to yourself.