A kiss on the cheek, a fortifying sip of white wine, and the date was under way. As is always the case with online dating, James and I had already done much of the preamble before we arrived.
I knew he was 34, single, with his own business and – thank goodness – he turned out to be just as good looking as his profile picture. What I didn’t know was the direction conversation would go, once we’d got past the usual niceties. ‘So, you’re a bit older and you’ve been married before, why don’t you have kids?’ he asked. I almost spat out my drink.
True, I was 35 and had already had one marriage, albeit a brief one, which had ended amicably a few months earlier, but as for children… well, I didn’t know how to answer that question.
‘I just haven’t had them yet,’ I blustered and steered the conversation into our shared passion for travel and our careers. The date went so well we met again, for dinner, two days later. Once again, James had barely lifted his knife and fork before the subject came up. ‘You do want children though, don’t you?’
I’d never met a man so keen to talk about babies! When you’re dating in your 20s, the subject rarely arises – even less so initiated by a man – but now, in my fourth decade, I supposed it was inevitable. So, I told him straight. ‘Please don’t feel awkward, but I can’t have children.’
‘But would you have them… you know, with help? Via surrogacy or something?’ he ventured. So began the journey I never thought I’d take – one I am still travelling nine years later. One that has plunged me into the depths of despair, shame and self-recrimination yet lifted me to heights of love and gratitude I never thought possible.
As I explained to James that evening in 2016, I’d always known I couldn’t have children. I was diagnosed with bladder cancer aged two and while doctors knew blasting my pelvis with radiotherapy at such a young age would cause problems, they didn’t know to what extent.
I was given the all-clear by the age of four but, as feared, I’d been left infertile. Radiotherapy had prevented the growth of my uterus and ovaries, killed my eggs and prevented my hips from widening as they would had I gone through normal puberty. My mum, Joan, handled it brilliantly and never hid anything from me. I grew up knowing I’d never experience a pregnancy and simply accepted it.
Gemma with her beloved Summer Grace, who was born by surrogacy in Ukraine
The couple waited until their surrogate was six months along before they announced their news
Gemma and James immediately adored Summer and couldn’t have been more grateful to everyone who’d made her possible
At secondary school, however, while my friends started their periods and bought bras, I didn’t, and for the first time had a sense of being different from other girls.
A badly worded and insensitive comment from a teacher, saying that having children was the purpose of life, stung badly. ‘Does that make my life meaningless?’ I asked myself. I promised myself I’d do everything to make sure it wasn’t.
Aged 18, I was put on HRT, had breast implants in an attempt to gain some femininity and threw myself into my work. My value would come from having a career, not a family, I decided.
I took a job with Benefit Cosmetics and worked my way through the ranks, becoming head of UK boutiques before opening my own aesthetics clinic in September 2023.
I was upfront with boyfriends about not being able to have children and it never bothered them. As for my ex-husband, he’d never wanted a family anyway. When my friends started having babies – and my older brother became a father three years ago – I was fine with it, as I’d made peace with my life.
Once James and I became a couple, we’d book flights on a whim, explore different countries and chase endless summers. But all the while the subject of children remained, like a silently nagging presence.
James is one of four and loves children – and they love him. He’s always the one at family barbecues running around with the kids. Watching him, a sense of unease started to grow in me. It wasn’t that I was actively against the idea of children, it was just I knew it would be incredibly difficult and emotionally fraught – and I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to handle it.
At one point, I urged James to rethink his relationship with me. ‘If you want children, maybe you should leave and find someone else,’ I told him tearfully, after seeing him cuddle a friend’s baby. I meant every word. ‘But I only want a family with you,’ he replied.
Gemma reports that Summer is starting to recognise her now and describes the love in her eyes as ‘just incredible’
Our writer tells her detractors: Never judge until you have the full picture – who knows what you’d do in the same circumstances
I did some soul searching and realised that if I had to watch this man I loved move on and have a baby with another woman, I’d never forgive myself for not at least trying.
In August 2021, James and I married in his parents’ garden. Soon after, James gently encouraged me to look into surrogacy. We’d attended a few conferences to assess options and he was keen to jump right in.
Yet fear held me back. For 40 years, I’d never truly dealt with the fact I couldn’t have children and now I didn’t like how it made me feel.
We were happy, weren’t we? Why change everything? I tried stalling tactics, telling James we had too much going on; we’d just moved house, were in the middle of renovations, we’d been in lockdown.
But by 2023, I had no more excuses to hide behind. It was time to rip off the surrogacy plaster. As soon as I did, negative emotions I didn’t know existed crept out. I felt worthless, embarrassed, ashamed, heartbroken, defeated. I even questioned whether I was a proper woman, recalling those horrible words, spoken by my teacher years ago.
Regardless, I pushed forwards. We chose not to proceed with surrogacy in the UK due to the lack of legal protection for us should a surrogate decide to keep the baby.
Instead, we opted for Ukraine where a typical package costs around £50,000 compared with £130,000 in the US. It’s a country which, despite the war, remains the world’s surrogacy hub, with thousands of women still carrying babies for foreigners every year.
James and I had both worked and saved, hard, but without the help of James’ parents and their generous contribution, we could never have afforded it.
The relationship with the surrogate would be transactional, rather than personal, we decided. I didn’t feel emotionally strong enough to form a bond with her; I hated that I couldn’t do this myself and the distance shielded me, a little, from my feelings of inadequacy. But I never saw it as exploitative. We knew our surrogate had chosen this path. It’s an incredible gift a woman can give another and something many people can’t understand.
I always felt like the surrogate was in safe hands. The clinic was incredibly thorough with her care and sent us regular updates.
Of course, there was the not insignificant matter of her living in Ukraine. Luckily, she is in the south-west of the country, in a city that has been largely spared direct military action. In July 2023, we travelled from our home in Billericay, Essex, to the clinic in Kyiv and James gave his sample. We were never concerned for our safety, although James’ mum was very worried.
Next, we had to choose an egg donor. We went for a woman who looked like me – fair hair, light eyes, a small frame and average height. Six embryos were created, half of which were frozen, leaving us with a batch of three: two girls and one boy.
The first two transfers into the surrogate were unsuccessful and the stress and disappointment were everything I’d feared. Then in April last year the third – a girl – finally worked.
I received the news confirming a positive pregnancy test via WhatsApp two weeks later. I was standing in my kitchen at work when the message arrived, my heart racing. As the pregnancy progressed, James and I tried to contain our nervousness and excitement. We’d only told a few people: our mothers, James’ dad (my own dad died when I was a child) and my best friend.
I’d smile politely whenever the subject of children came up. I even managed to keep quiet when a client started talking about surrogacy, commenting how difficult it must be bonding with a child who wasn’t biologically yours. I would soon learn that surrogacy is a subject on which everyone has an opinion – usually uninformed.
We waited until our surrogate was six months along before we announced our news, leaving everyone stunned and thrilled. We had already agreed on a name: Summer Grace.
As the due date for January 2025 neared, I had daily flutters looking at the rail of muted pink babygros I’d bought.
When our surrogate went into labour, James and I boarded the next flight out to Romania, from where we’d travel by road to Ukraine. But just before take-off, we received a message saying our baby had been born. We sat on the runway in stunned silence.
As soon as we landed, a photo of her came through. I stared at this pink little bundle and panic flooded through me. What if I didn’t feel anything for her? What if that comment about not bonding with ‘someone else’s child’ was true? What if I wasn’t cut out to be a mother after all?
But once we arrived, a nurse placed Summer in my arms and all my worries melted away. I adored her and couldn’t have been more grateful to everyone who’d made her possible. We’d already been told the surrogate was doing well and that the birth hadn’t been traumatic.
Summer was discharged two days later and we moved into a rented apartment. Finally, it was just the three of us, in our brand new baby bubble and two-hourly bottle feeds. Although I’d had experience with other people’s babies, there’s nothing like holding your own. And that’s what Summer feels like – our own.
Every time she frowns, I see James in her; she has his eyes and the same dimple in her chin.
A week after Summer was born, I read that Emily In Paris actress Lily Collins and her husband had had a baby via surrogate. Online commenters described it as ‘unethical’ and ‘renting women’s bodies’. The backlash shocked me. What right did strangers have to comment on a woman’s personal decision, the details of which they had no idea? Did Lily – and I – not deserve this happiness?
I’d say to every one of those detractors: never judge until you have the full picture. Who knows what you’d do in the same circumstances.
Our journey is far from over; I’m still in Ukraine. Registering her birth and securing a passport for Summer has meant more than eight weeks of administration.
Summer is starting to recognise me now and the love in her eyes when she looks at me is just incredible. I am her mother; she is my daughter – of that there can be no doubt. We still have three embryos frozen at the clinic and while at the moment one baby feels like more than enough, never say never.
I built a life I was proud of and was scared to change it. Now I realise the thing I was most scared of is the thing I needed most.
- Follow Gemma’s journey on Instagram @surrogacy_story
