I’m 36 And I’m Running Out Of Eggs

That morning, I had an appointment with a fertility doctor. I want to freeze my eggs.

I had flown to Medellín, Colombia a few days earlier because I had decided to freeze them there. I used to live in this city, and I still have an apartment there.

The city holds a special place in my heart. It's a place that represents freedom, expansion, and possibility for me. It was where I first felt independent, brave, and self-directed. It felt symbolic to return here, to the place that shaped my autonomy, and make a decision that would give me more control over my future.

If you've never been to Medellín, it's known as the city of eternal spring. It sits in a valley wrapped in lush green mountains. The people are warm, open, and generous. Music drifts through the streets. There's an ease here that feels contagious, despite the painful history the city carries.

In the 1980s and early 1990s, Medellín became synonymous with violence and drug trafficking under figures like Pablo Escobar and the Medellín cartel. Bombings. Kidnappings. One of the highest homicide rates in the world. Families shattered. A city defined by chaos.

For a time, it seemed irredeemable. But Medellín rebuilt itself. Through infrastructure, innovation, and collective will, it transformed into one of Latin America's most vibrant cities. Now, it's a popular tourist destination, and many tourists end up spending a lot of time here.

It had been years since I'd been back, and I was happy to return. I was also excited about freezing my eggs, and the future possibility of having children one day.

It was as if a version of my future evaporated without warning.

This wasn't my first fertility consultation, though.

In March 2025, I had visited a clinic to explore egg freezing. The doctor explained the process and performed an ultrasound. During that ultrasound, the screen showed 23 follicles. Twenty-three.

The doctor smiled and assured me.

"You have time," he said. I could comfortably wait a year, either to find a husband (I smiled in disbelief at this suggestion), or to freeze my eggs. My hormone levels looked good. My ovarian reserve appeared strong. Nothing about the appointment felt alarming.

I left feeling relieved. Relaxed. I believed I wasn't in a rush.

I continued living my life. I worked. I traveled. I dated intentionally, but without panic. I told myself I had built enough optionality into my life to move thoughtfully.

Now, only eleven months later, I decided to move forward and start the process.

So there I was, lying in the examination room, sunlight spilling over the mountains of Medellín. Another ultrasound.

The doctor counted quietly.

One. Two. Three.

Six.

Six follicles.

She paused. The air shifted. The tone changed in a way that didn't require explanation. This was an unexpectedly rapid decline.

From 23 to 6.

The image looked clear on the screen, but landed heavy in my body.

Writing this now, I feel the same stillness I felt in that room. Not panic. Not hysteria. Just a strange emptiness. As if a version of my future evaporated without warning. Not gone, but no longer easily assumed.

The doctor looked at me, smiling uncomfortably. Eyes filled with pity.

We discussed next steps: blood tests to assess ovarian reserve, another ultrasound next week.

"Sometimes more follicles appear," she said carefully.

And that's true. Follicle count fluctuates month to month. AMH levels provide more context. One cycle is not destiny. But the message beneath the reassurance was clear: we should move quickly.

Readiness and biology are not necessarily synchronized.

It's hard, because fertility is largely out of your control. You can eat clean, lift weights, meditate, optimize supplements, track your cycle, build a disciplined and intentional life. You can delay gratification, think long-term, and make wise decisions. But still, the biology unfolding inside you may not follow your timeline.

Your eggs have their own will.

There's something uniquely disorienting about being a well-functioning woman in your thirties. You build a career. You outgrow insecurities. You develop standards. You refuse to settle. You do everything "right."

Modern life rewards sequencing. First education. Then career. Then stability. Then love. Then children.

We're told we can have it all, just not necessarily all at once. So we stagger it. We optimize for optionality. We treat time like a resource we can allocate strategically. But biology does not follow our desired timelines.

It does not care that you're almost ready.

It does not care that you're finally emotionally mature.

It does not care that you walked away from someone misaligned because you value long-term compatibility.

There is no reward for "doing it right."

I used to feel ahead of my life. Disciplined. Thoughtful. Intentional. Now I feel outpaced. As if my body accelerated while I believed I still had plenty of time.

The day before the appointment, I ended things with someone. Not because I don't want love—I do—but because I want the right life. His lifestyle wasn't aligned with what I envision long term. So I thought it best to choose long-term integrity over short-term comfort, despite the fact that I do love him.

I felt strong in that decision.

And then, less than 24 hours later, I was confronted with a different reality: what if long-term has a shorter window than I assumed?

We assume we have time.

Time to find the right partner.

Time to build savings.

Time to feel fully ready.

Time to become the best version of ourselves before bringing a child into the world.

But readiness and biology are not necessarily synchronized.

If I could speak to my 30-year-old self, I would tell her this:

Don't rely on reassurance alone. Get baseline numbers. Test your AMH. Ask for an antral follicle count. Retest annually if motherhood is something you may want. Don't assume your timeline will follow the average. Fertility is statistical, but your body is individual.

"You have time" is not a guarantee. It's just a snapshot.

Hormone levels change. Follicle counts decline. Some women maintain strong reserves into their forties. Others see sharper drops in their mid-thirties. You don't know what's true for you unless you measure, and keep measuring.

Our bodies are not our enemies. They are messengers, even when they reveal messages we would rather not receive.

Egg freezing is not just a medical procedure. It's a strategic decision. And like most strategic decisions, earlier often provides more leverage. More eggs retrieved generally means more future probability. Waiting is not inherently wrong. But waiting without updated information can be risky.

Freezing your eggs is not an admission of defeat. It's not pessimism about love. It's not shameful. It's an acknowledgment that biology exists whether you plan around it or not.

After the appointment, I went to the hairdresser. I hated how it turned out. I know, it sounds trivial. It's fixable. But it wasn't about my hair. It was about what I saw in the mirror. Looking at myself and suddenly seeing age everywhere all at once.

Turning from a girl into a woman is slow and subtle until one day it isn't so subtle anymore.

Your skin loosens. Wrinkles appear. Recovery takes longer. Energy seems to evaporate. And apparently, so does your ovarian reserve.

When fertility is turning against you, your body starts feeling like an enemy. It's moving forward without consulting you. Your biology is no longer in perfect alignment.

But our bodies are not our enemies. They are messengers, even when they reveal messages we would rather not receive.

The question is not whether change happens.

The question is what we do next.

Medellín, as a city, had to answer that question once before. It did not erase its past. It integrated it. It modernized. It adapted. It decided that devastation would not be its permanent identity.

That transformation feels personal now.

Reinvention is always available. No matter how difficult. No matter how unexpected. We, too, have the opportunity to wake up and rebuild. Not from denial, but from awareness.

In my case, that reinvention might mean freezing my eggs immediately.

It might mean adjusting my timeline.

It might mean approaching partnership with greater clarity and urgency.

It might mean accepting that control is always partial, and acting decisively within the part we do control.

Running out of eggs forces me to confront the limits of time.

Going from 23 to 6 follicles is a confrontation with finiteness. With aging. Running out of eggs forces me to confront the limits of time. And adulthood is, perhaps, the ability to respond to that wisely.

I don't know if I will become a mother.

I don't know what my bloodwork will tell me next week.

I don't know what my life will look like a year from now.

But I do know this:

I may not control the pace of biology or how quickly the numbers shift. But I still control how I respond.

Even if timelines move faster than we want or expect, we will have to move with them. We don't admit defeat. We adapt. Because life, however imperfect, however uncertain, is still too precious to abandon.