The author flew to Spain to freeze her eggs. Courtesy of the author I traveled to Barcelona a week after my 40th birthday to freeze my eggs. I saw the procedure as a way to give my future self more reproductive options. I ultimately froze eight eggs and plan to undergo another round. It was a week after my 40th birthday, September 2025. I was celebrating by freezing my eggs in Barcelona, where the price could be less than a year's worth of Botox in New York. I told myself it would be a vacation: tapas, sunbathing, a few glasses of Rioja, and the opportunity for future Jennys to chill in a Spanish freezer. Ticking off the beginning of my 40s, I was buying time. One round of egg freezing, including a year of storage, would cost me less than $4,500, roughly one-fifth the cost back home in New York, where some clinics charge upward of $20,000. The savings are what first attracted me to Spain, but the full picture is what sold me. No one blinked at my age. Spain has one of the highest percentages of mothers over 40, and from the first consultation, my doctor eased my concerns about my "geriatric eggs." Because regulations are uniform throughout Spain, I chose the city and clinic based on ease and proximity to my favorite tourist attractions. The author flew to Barcelona, initially for a few weeks, to freeze her eggs. Courtesy of the author Some of the clinics I first consulted even had lists of recommended hotels, offered airport transit, helped book flights, and provided travel suggestions. My fertility shifted from a question mark to an all-inclusive getaway. Then reality set in. It wasn't easy being far away from home I thought I'd have an easier time than most. I'd lived and studied in Spain before, but my Friday-night language classes hadn't prepared me to translate medical jargon when my English-speaking doctor went on holiday. And nothing could have prepared me for hiding in the bathroom of my rental, injecting hormones into my belly fat, while the clinic left me on hold, waiting to schedule my past-due monitoring scans. Weeks into the process, I found myself scrunching the lines on my forehead, wondering if Botox wouldn't have been the better investment. In theory, I was part of a growing trend; between 2024 and 2025, American women choosing European fertility treatments increased by 37.2%, according to The European Fertility Society. "Spain in particular saw an increase of 41.7%," the group's Chair, Jakub Dejewski, told Business Insider. My clinic in Barcelona recorded a 50% increase in treatments for US patients year over year. But in reality, I was alone, wiping the ultrasound goo off my inner thigh while the nurse spoke to me in Spanish from the other side of the curtain. I stepped out of the disposable gown that stuck to my skin and into the new pants I'd picked up at Corte Ingles that morning, before following her to the doctor's office. The more I needed to steady myself for visits, the more money I spent on clothes and red lipstick. The author intends to fly again to Barcelona for a second round of egg freezing. Courtesy of the author Despite my high ovarian reserve, the follicles where eggs mature weren't developing as anticipated, resulting in fewer viable eggs than expected. I had a choice: stop the hormones now and start again on my next cycle, or resign myself to fewer viable eggs. It was 10 a.m., still too early to call anyone back home. I'd have to decide alone. I agreed to restart when my doctor returned, and extended my fertility holiday, staying nearly two months, rather than the planned two weeks. It was still simpler than returning to the US, where the cost of fertility hormones has increased by 90% since 2014. I considered myself lucky, and when my doctor told me women who stressed the least had the best outcomes, I leaned in and went with the flow. I lived in a rented apartment, worked remotely, dated Spanish men, and drank like I was on holiday (the doctor said it was OK). The more the complications of motherhood confronted me, the more I escaped into an alternative reality. I will need another round The next round went better; the doctor gave me his personal number to schedule scans, bypassing the clinic's communications. It was unusual, but I appreciated it. Every few days, I watched my follicles grow on the tiny monitor and counted along in Spanish. My future was beginning to feel more real, even if geographically complicated. The night before my extraction, I dipped the needle in and out of three glass bottles, mixing the hormones to induce ovulation. I sent my doctor a video, asking if I'd mixed correctly. He sent a thumbs-up. I squeezed the fat of my tummy, injected the final dose of my fertility journey, and went to bed. The next day, once again in a disposable gown, the nurse and translator ran through the pre-procedure checklist. Because the clinic worked on a rotating schedule, my doctor wouldn't be performing the extraction. There were complications. Ovulation wasn't induced. When I awoke from anesthesia, my doctor explained it all. I returned the next day for a second try; this time, he performed the procedure himself. Out of 16 follicles, eight eggs survived and are being stored in Barcelona. According to the calculator my doctor uses, the 16 eggs could have given me up to a 77% chance of having a child. But eight isn't enough; it lowers the odds to 52% at best. I'll go for a second round of freezing, again in Spain, likely this October, but part of me is delaying it. It's complicated to take the time off work; it was harder on my body than expected, and the memory of riding alone back to my rented flat is thick in my gut. Of course, I'd rather be in New York fighting with my mother on the way to my doctor's appointments. But there are costs, regulatory, and medical realities that can't be ignored. The truth is, for me, and many women like me, the emotional expense of fertility tourism is still more affordable than the price back home. Read the original article on Business Insider
The author flew to Spain to freeze her eggs.Courtesy of the author I traveled to Barcelona a week after my 40th birthday to freeze my eggs. I saw the procedure as a way to give my future self more reproductive options. I ultimately froze eight eggs and plan to undergo another round. It was a week after my 40th birthday, September 2025. I was celebrating by freezing my eggs in Barcelona, where the price could be less than a year's worth of Botox in New York. I told myself it would be a vacation: tapas, sunbathing, a few glasses of Rioja, and the opportunity for future Jennys to chill in a Spanish freezer. Ticking off the beginning of my 40s, I was buying time. One round of egg freezing, including a year of storage, would cost me less than $4,500, roughly one-fifth the cost back home in New York, where some clinics charge upward of $20,000. The savings are what first attracted me to Spain, but the full picture is what sold me. No one blinked at my age. Spain has one of the highest percentages of mothers over 40, and from the first consultation, my doctor eased my concerns about my "geriatric eggs." Because regulations are uniform throughout Spain, I chose the city and clinic based on ease and proximity to my favorite tourist attractions. The author flew to Barcelona, initially for a few weeks, to freeze her eggs.Courtesy of the author Some of the clinics I first consulted even had lists of recommended hotels, offered airport transit, helped book flights, and provided travel suggestions. My fertility shifted from a question mark to an all-inclusive getaway. Then reality set in. It wasn't easy being far away from home I thought I'd have an easier time than most. I'd lived and studied in Spain before, but my Friday-night language classes hadn't prepared me to translate medical jargon when my English-speaking doctor went on holiday. And nothing could have prepared me for hiding in the bathroom of my rental, injecting hormones into my belly fat, while the clinic left me on hold, waiting to schedule my past-due monitoring scans. Weeks into the process, I found myself scrunching the lines on my forehead, wondering if Botox wouldn't have been the better investment. In theory, I was part of a growing trend; between 2024 and 2025, American women choosing European fertility treatments increased by 37.2%, according to The European Fertility Society. "Spain in particular saw an increase of 41.7%," the group's Chair, Jakub Dejewski, told Business Insider. My clinic in Barcelona recorded a 50% increase in treatments for US patients year over year. But in reality, I was alone, wiping the ultrasound goo off my inner thigh while the nurse spoke to me in Spanish from the other side of the curtain. I stepped out of the disposable gown that stuck to my skin and into the new pants I'd picked up at Corte Ingles that morning, before following her to the doctor's office. The more I needed to steady myself for visits, the more money I spent on clothes and red lipstick. The author intends to fly again to Barcelona for a second round of egg freezing.Courtesy of the author Despite my high ovarian reserve, the follicles where eggs mature weren't developing as anticipated, resulting in fewer viable eggs than expected. I had a choice: stop the hormones now and start again on my next cycle, or resign myself to fewer viable eggs. It was 10 a.m., still too early to call anyone back home. I'd have to decide alone. I agreed to restart when my doctor returned, and extended my fertility holiday, staying nearly two months, rather than the planned two weeks. It was still simpler than returning to the US, where the cost of fertility hormones has increased by 90% since 2014. I considered myself lucky, and when my doctor told me women who stressed the least had the best outcomes, I leaned in and went with the flow. I lived in a rented apartment, worked remotely, dated Spanish men, and drank like I was on holiday (the doctor said it was OK). The more the complications of motherhood confronted me, the more I escaped into an alternative reality. I will need another round The next round went better; the doctor gave me his personal number to schedule scans, bypassing the clinic's communications. It was unusual, but I appreciated it. Every few days, I watched my follicles grow on the tiny monitor and counted along in Spanish. My future was beginning to feel more real, even if geographically complicated. The night before my extraction, I dipped the needle in and out of three glass bottles, mixing the hormones to induce ovulation. I sent my doctor a video, asking if I'd mixed correctly. He sent a thumbs-up. I squeezed the fat of my tummy, injected the final dose of my fertility journey, and went to bed. The next day, once again in a disposable gown, the nurse and translator ran through the pre-procedure checklist. Because the clinic worked on a rotating schedule, my doctor wouldn't be performing the extraction. There were complications. Ovulation wasn't induced. When I awoke from anesthesia, my doctor explained it all. I returned the next day for a second try; this time, he performed the procedure himself. Out of 16 follicles, eight eggs survived and are being stored in Barcelona. According to the calculator my doctor uses, the 16 eggs could have given me up to a 77% chance of having a child. But eight isn't enough; it lowers the odds to 52% at best. I'll go for a second round of freezing, again in Spain, likely this October, but part of me is delaying it. It's complicated to take the time off work; it was harder on my body than expected, and the memory of riding alone back to my rented flat is thick in my gut. Of course, I'd rather be in New York fighting with my mother on the way to my doctor's appointments. But there are costs, regulatory, and medical realities that can't be ignored. The truth is, for me, and many women like me, the emotional expense of fertility tourism is still more affordable than the price back home. Read the original article on Business Insider
