You never imagined motherhood would look like this—watching another woman carry your child, feeling both joy and vulnerability in equal measure. You always thought your body would do it naturally, that pregnancy would come easily, and that love would grow from within. But life had other plans, and now, you’re learning that motherhood isn’t just about biology—it’s about courage, trust, and the quiet power of hope.

Your journey began with excitement. The first positive pregnancy test felt like a miracle; you danced in the bathroom, called your husband, and cried with joy. But weeks later, the bleeding started. The doctor said it was a miscarriage, and you told yourself it was just one and that next time would be different. But next time never came; instead, there were more tests, more procedures, and more heartbreak. You tried IVF—twice; the embryos looked promising, the transfers went smoothly, but nothing stuck. Your uterus, they said, was hostile (due to scarring from your two previous surgeries). You hated that word, hostile—as if your body had declared war on your dreams.

The years passed by speedily, you considered adoption, and you even attended a seminar, but something inside you still longed for a biological connection. You wanted to see your smile in your child’s face, your husband’s eyes looking back at you; you weren’t ready to let go of that dream.

Then someone mentioned surrogacy, gestational surrogacy. At first, it sounded foreign, clinical, and even controversial. You’d heard whispers—“wombs for rent,” “unnatural,” “against tradition”—but the more you researched, the more it made sense. Gestational surrogacy would allow you to use your own eggs and your husband’s sperm; the baby would be biologically yours. You just needed someone to carry it.

You approached a fertility clinic in Lagos; they were professional, warm, and reassuring. They explained the process, the legal steps, the emotional journey, the highs, and the lows. You met with a counselor who asked you pretty hard questions: Are you ready to trust another woman with your child? How will you handle the emotional distance? What if she changes her mind? You didn’t have all the answers, but you knew you were ready to try.

Finding a surrogate wasn’t easy. You reviewed profiles, medical histories, psychological evaluations, success rates, costs, etc.; you wanted someone healthy, responsible, and kind, but more than that, you wanted someone who understood what this meant—not just physically, but emotionally. After weeks of searching, you met her.

Her name is Ruth, an attractive, dark-skinned woman in her early thirties, a mother of two, calm and confident. She spoke softly but with conviction and said she wanted to help someone experience the joy she’d felt with her own children. Ruth wasn’t desperate, she wasn’t naive, she was simply willing. You met her at the clinic; sitting across from her in a quiet room, you were nervous, unsure of what to say, but she smiled reassuringly. Her voice was clear and cosseting: “I know this is your baby; I’m just helping you bring it into the world.” You cried, right there, in front of her; you shed tears of uncertainty and of hope. Ruth reached out and held your hand. “It is okay; this is going to work out,” she assured. 

The legal process followed, contracts were signed, terms were agreed upon, you covered her medical expenses, provided a monthly allowance, and ensured she had access to counselling and support. You paid exactly what she asked for without negotiating any discounts because you wanted her to feel safe, respected, and valued. This wasn’t just a transaction; it was a partnership.

The embryo transfer was hitch-free, and you watched through a glass window as doctors performed the procedure. You held your breath, whispered prayers, and hoped the surrogate’s body would welcome what yours could not. Days passed, then weeks, and then the phone call came: Ruth was pregnant.

You felt joy, elation, and happiness, but also fear. You didn’t want to get too attached or too hopeful because you’d been disappointed before. But your fears are unfounded, as every ultrasound, every heartbeat, and every growing bump proves to you that this time was different.

You attended appointments with your surrogate, you kept a journal throughout the pregnancy and wrote letters to your unborn child and also about Ruth, about her strength and kindness. You wrote about your fears, your hopes, and your dreams. As the due date approached, your emotions intensified. You worried about the birth, about bonding, and about the moment you’d finally hold your baby. You spoke to the counselor again. She reminded you that love isn’t measured by who carries the child, but by who shows up, day after day, with open arms and an open heart.

Ruth went into labor on a rainy June morning. You rushed to the hospital, heart pounding, but you weren’t allowed in the delivery room, so you waited just outside, pacing, praying. Hours passed, then a nurse appeared, smiling. “It’s a girl,” she said. She’s healthy and beautiful. You walked into the room, trembling, your heart pounding. Ruth lay in bed, exhausted but glowing; she held the baby for a moment, then looked at you. She’s yours; she’s been yours all along. You took your daughter in your arms, and everything changed. The years of pain, the failed cycles, the doubts—they all melted away. You were a mother.

You thanked Ruth, over and over. You hugged her, cried with her, and promised to stay in touch. She smiled and said you should just send her a photo now and then. Bringing your daughter home felt greater than anything you’d ever done. You stared at her for hours, memorizing every detail; you whispered stories, sang lullabies, and introduced her to your family. She was perfect, a child of grace born of favor, and she was yours. You named her Favour.

But you never forgot how she came to be. You told her, even as a baby, about the woman who carried her. You let her know she was born from love—yours, her father’s, and Ruth’s. You wanted her to know the truth. Not just the science, but the heart behind it.

Surrogacy changed you. It taught you humility, patience, and gratitude, and showed you that motherhood isn’t defined by biology alone. It’s defined by love, sacrifice, and the courage to choose a different path.

You still keep in touch with Ruth, sending her photos, updates, little notes, and emails. She replies with warmth and pride and says your daughter looks just like you. You smile, knowing that in some way, she sees herself in your child too. And every time you hold Favour, you remember the journey, the tears, the trials, and the triumph. You remember the woman who carried hope—not just in her womb, but in her heart. You are a mother, and this is your story.