I didn’t realize I was giving away pieces of myself until it was already done. At the time, I convinced myself it was love—something we were doing for our family, for our future. My husband framed surrogacy as a solution to our financial struggles, promising it would free us from debt and give us a fresh start. I trusted him, believing we were in it together, even when the truth was far more one-sided.

The first pregnancy felt manageable, almost purposeful. The intended parents were kind, and I held onto the idea that I was helping someone build a family. But once the money came in, the relief didn’t last. Soon, he was asking me to do it again. My body hadn’t healed, my mind hadn’t caught up, yet I said yes—again—because I believed in “us.”

The second time was different. It drained me physically and emotionally. He grew distant, leaving me to carry the weight alone. When it was over, and the debts were finally paid, I thought we had reached the finish line. Instead, he walked away, saying I had changed, that he was no longer attracted to me. Just like that, everything I had sacrificed meant nothing to him.

But that wasn’t the end of my story. Slowly, I rebuilt myself—through work, healing, and rediscovering my worth. What I once thought was loss became clarity. I didn’t lose everything. I found myself.