If you ask me why I decided to become a gestational carrier, you might be a bit surprised by my answer.
No, it's not the money, or the time off that comes with delivering a baby.
For me, it's the process of being pregnant that thrills me.
The feeling that comes with doing something completely selfless for a family unable to deliver their own children is one I can only describe as a cleansing. I suppose this story really began back in college. I was already a single mother when I found out that I was pregnant. I felt like I had no choice at the time, I simply couldn't handle taking on a new baby.
So I had an abortion - twice. I carried the heaviness of shame for years, feeling like I had taken something away from the world that wasn't mine to take. That feeling remained on my chest, even after college, starting my career as a teacher and having more children.
One day, I went to my doctor to discuss tying my tubes. I was asked if I was sure I didn't want to perhaps offer my womb to a friend that needed help instead, and my wheels began to spin. That was four years ago, and since then, I have signed up with a surrogacy agency and started the process full speed ahead.
The idea that I can carry someone's child for them when they cannot is my own way of making amends for the choices I had to make in college.
I also have been fortunate enough to see some of the various ways families are formed. When my sister was 15, she got pregnant. As her guardian at the time, I supported her decision to release her baby for adoption. The experience was positive and, to this day, we're still in contact with the adopting family and the child. We get Christmas cards and pictures of new haircuts and he refers to my sister as his guardian angel.
This was my first taste of what giving a child to a family feels like.
I realize that surrogacy is in the news more than it used to be. Hollywood is beginning to normalize the idea, but when I started this process, I had really no idea what to expect. I imagine there are some women out there reading this who feel the same. What is surrogacy? Is it scary? I hope my story opens up the conversation more because there are so many families in the world who need help to make their dreams of having children a reality.
I live in Beaufort, South Carolina where surrogacy agencies are actually in dire need of gestational carriers.
The agency's application process is certainly not simple. It involves a home visit from a social worker, a 7-page survey, bloodwork, an STD screening, and a complete deep dive into your medical history to determine how safe pregnancy will be for you. I remember when the social worker showed up at my house to conduct the inspection and survey with me. Here I am, fresh from work, three kids running around and my house a mess! Fortunately, she also saw that my home is full of love and that was the most important element she took back with her that day.
After the review process is done, the next step is to match me with a family. I explain this step to my friends and family as "Match.com but for carrying a baby." The agency's job is to make sure that my needs and preferences are aligned with the needs and preferences of the intended family. For example, if a family prefers a carrier that is vegan or of a certain age or if a carrier has a preference for a particular type of family. For me, my preference was for families who face discrimination. Same-sex couples were at the top of my list, along with families who had no children and this was their last option.
It was important to me that my body was serving a truly deserving family who may not otherwise have a chance.
The waiting list for families is incredibly long, which tells you just how much this service is truly needed. The families on the list come in all shapes and sizes. Many of the women I see on the list are survivors of cervical cancer or some other form of illness that rid them of their ability to safely carry babies. A lot of the other families are same-sex couples and singles who are choosing to have kids on their own. It didn't surprise me that all of the families that have been presented to me as possible options have been white.
Surrogacy isn't exactly common in the black community - and if it is, it certainly isn't talked about enough. The news that I was looking into becoming a gestational carrier seemed to sit better with my white friends than with my black friends. I assume this is because we have a fear of the unknown.
What might have surprised me the most is the reaction to the news received from my family. They didn't tell me I was out of my mind, instead they supported my decision entirely. My boyfriend had a bit more to consider. Both of us have children, but we have none together. For him, the idea that the first pregnancy he experienced with me will be for another family was a lot to digest. Men are emotionally involved with pregnancy too - running to the store to get us the snacks we're craving, rubbing our swollen feet at the end of the day and the "payoff" is that at the end of the experience they have a baby in their arms to fall in love with.
After some thought, he gave me his full support. "This is our surrogacy," he said, "I never thought this would be something I'd be dealing with, but I'm cool with it, if it'll make you happy."
The questions I get asked the most by those curious are typically about the money and the transfer. These are the seemingly less appealing parts of surrogacy that people seem to feel the most uneasy about. There's a lot of debate about whether surrogates being paid as much as they are, is taking some of the sanctity away from the process. It's true most surrogates take home a pretty penny. The fee can range from $25K to $50K, and even more for multiple births. The more experience with surrogacy, the higher the pay, similar to the experience in any field of service.
Do I feel bad for being paid to carry someone's baby? Nope. I'm a teacher, so I get paid to be with other people's children all day. Why should that be any different for a child occupying my actual body? A gestational carrier is making a huge commitment for the better part of a year and monetary compensation for that commitment in my opinion is absolutely necessary.
The transfer is what we call the birth. When you have the baby, the intended parent is typically the one to help in the delivery room and the one to cut the cord.
I don't have anything but joy and anticipation for that moment.
Being able to see someone who has wished for that day for so long finally meet their little one, finally feel fulfilled and complete - that feeling overrides any attachment I may develop for the baby while in utero. I think sometimes people forget that there is more satisfaction in giving than there is in receiving. Being a surrogate is certainly not exempt from that rule.
Now that all my screening is done, my next step is to wait. After being presented with a bunch of potential families that I felt - for one reason or another - weren't quite right for me, I may have finally found one that fits. A single gay man who is ready to be a father. I can't imagine what joy he must feel knowing that his dream may finally come to fruition. I can only feel the joy in my own heart from the knowledge that I may be the person to help him along that journey.
For any women reading this who are considering surrogacy - either to be one or to use one. I hope you take with you this very important last message. Don't give a damn what anyone says about it. Do your research, and make an informed choice. But once you make that choice, stick by it unapologetically.
The way we have our babies, the way we make our babies, and what we do with our ability to make babies are our own. Make your choice, stand by your choice, and enjoy your choice.
- As Told To Ashley Simpo
For information about surrogacy laws and regulations in your state, click here or contact the local agencies in your area.
Featured image by Mustafa Omar on Unsplash
What One Divorce, Two Baby Daddies, & Three Kids By The Age Of 26 Taught Me About Myself
At 17, I was one of those girls who walked the stage at high school graduation with a baby bump.
I was in love with a sweet-talking, motorcycle-riding, salsa-dancing, soccer player. I just knew he was the man of my dreams. Not even a month after turning eighteen, I delivered my first child, Jizelle. Ironically enough, now that I am looking back, she is the rearing force of my post-secondary education. My mom was alright—but I wanted to be amazing, awesome, freaking astounding.
Turns out, Señor Salsa Dancer was not the man of my dreams. The truth of that rang resoundingly clear to me when he had the nerve to propose to me while having another girlfriend. In my mind, that ring was living proof that he was ready to be devoted to me and come home to his family, in our two-bedroom shack every night.
Or not.
I came to my senses one day, found a new place, and left.
When Jizelle was two, I met the second man of my dreams. He was a firefighter in the Marine Corps and the most tender and compassionate soul I've ever met. We met in August of 2011 and were married by the end of December that same year.
I know it sounds impulsive, but it's a trend that I am still trying to conquer.
During the time of my marriage, my husband was always great. He allowed me to engulf myself into my English studies and back away from working. We spent nearly four years married, and I had my second child in September of 2012, another girl, Presley. I delivered my third child not too long after.
I definitely started pushing him off the cliff, if we're being honest.
When I say he was a good guy, he was the best guy.
Even with my mistakes, flaws, and controlling ways, he still seemed to be patient, empathetic and never teetered. I mean, friends would gush about their guy, how he couldn't keep it in his pants, texted other girls, and gave the silent treatment—endless things. I treated my husband worse than any could imagine, and he never lost love or hope for me.
I had rushed into a marriage.
I know this now. I get it. I am fully aware that since I did not have the most stable and positive family aspect growing up as a child, and swept a failed household with my high school boo under the rug, my heart craved a family. I wanted a sense of completeness.
I needed wholeness. I needed a family, a good husband, a degree, and a career to prove to myself that indeed was a worthy woman.
I finished my Bachelor's in 2013 and my Master's in 2015. I have been teaching full-time since 2014. From the outside, I was an inspiration, an overcomer, and such a nice girl. Truthfully, I was buried under mounds of unhealed wounds. I continued to ruin that poor man until I had the gall to admit I could not handle the marriage.
In February of 2015, I'd had it.
I told him I was moving out. I couldn't stand living with him. Looking at him. Sleeping next to him. Each day, I had a new reason why or one more thing for him to change. Now looking back, it should have been me gathering books, articles, and self-help guides to be a better wife. I should have been sprawled on the altar, begging the Lord for mercy and healing. No, thanks!
I packed up, got an overpriced 2-bedroom apartment less than 15 minutes from the house we owned, and left. Those days were the most severing of my life. The silence, small space, and time alone made me beam with joy. People noticed a glow and questioned if I was pregnant again. “No, ma'am," I'd say, “I've just left my husband!"
Sorry, not sorry.
So I'd spent six months alone, from February to August of 2015. My husband had still wanted to go on dates from time-to-time and I agreed. One, free food is great. Two, I didn't want to look like a bitch and decline the offer. And honestly I really enjoyed being around him.
Towards the end of August, I thought to myself, Wow, we have been getting along so great, maybe it's time I move home and commit to making this work for the kids. I can't actually get a divorce without giving our marriage a try just one more time.
In comes that evil impulsiveness. I met with him and told him I wanted to move back home. Within a week, we were moving my things back home. I found somebody to take over my lease, and it was done.
I was home. Oh, home sweet home.
And then it happened again.
As soon as I moved back home, I converted back into the evil woman I'd once been.
Bitter.
Belittling.
Bitch.
There, I said it.
Soon after, and like perfect timing, my husband was offered a job near his hometown in Baltimore, MD and he was ecstatic."
"Yay, we can move near my family and friends, and the kids can play in the snow, and we can go to Ravens games. And our son can play lacrosse. Yay, yay, yay."
All the while, I'm sitting here looking like Kimberly "Sweet Brown" Wilkins with my "Ain't nobody got time for that" poker face.
I played the good girl and said I would move, but like old patterns, after four months of cohabitating (and losing myself all over again), I declared we were officially done.
He was a great guy, but not my guy.
I was a good girl, at heart, but I knew I would never be his woman.
I moved into a three-bedroom house in November of 2015. He officially accepted the job up North. We put our house in South Carolina on the market and It sold in a little over a week. On Christmas day, we opened presents, he kissed our kids goodbye, and with his truck loaded to the brim, he left for his parents' house in Baltimore.
I exhaled the moment he pulled out of my driveway. Bye, bruh.
Of course, now that it's been over two years since our initial separation, and a year and a half since he moved, I can take the blame. There is some serious self-work that needed to be done before I could fully submerge myself into another relationship.
My parents never quite taught me things I needed to know to be in a healthy marriage. It seems I was pretty much free to do what I want, say what I want, and act how I wanted my whole life—and until I was married, it never posed a significant issue. It landed me an internship, jobs, two degrees, and ultimately, the wherewithal to raise three children on my own. Heck, I've even gotten published from some things I have mustered up at a local coffee shop.
Learning who you are before accumulating children and serious relationships is vital.
I preach to my students, be single, have fun, learn who you are. I can never say I wish things were different, because, well, my kids. Even the slightest difference in my past, would have led to me not having them. And my sweet babies are everything important to me on this planet. So, I've decided my sporadic decisions and untraditional happenings were supposed to happen just this way. That this was my path. This is my journey.
My actions serve as a model of what not to do for women. As a guide of what to do if things do not go as planned for young ladies who may have a similar story to mine.
I am only twenty-six and I'm divorced.
But that's not all that defines me. I've graduated with a Bachelor's in English and a Master's in Education. I've adjusted to being a single mom. I've gotten used to working numerous jobs. I've also taken my investment of self up a notch by paying out of pocket for therapy to heal the wicked woman I have buried inside. Seeking redemption in His name, faith is a new journey.
What I've learned is that it's important to take your time, to never lose focus on your goals, to be an eager learner, to be nice to people because it's free, and to listen earnestly to those who need an ear. Most importantly, I've learned to be unapologetic of who you are, but that's not to say that it's acceptable to be unapologetic for scornful words and unjust roles in relationships with your significant other, family, or friends.
Get to know what makes your own soul smile and your heart heal.
Ty Snowden is a mother of three and surrogate-to-be. She is a teacher by day and college professor by night. Dreamin' of being a published author and prayin' on happiness for her arch enemies. Naturally, always include wine and sunshine. And be sure to follow her and read her other musings over at Single Momma of Three.
Featured image by Ian Kiragu on Unsplash