How it feels when your biological clock is ticking louder than love

At the age of 34, my guest blogger Greyeyebrowgirl admits she’s still searching for “the love of her life” – and battling what she describes as a full-blown case of womb ache.

Reading her piece below stirred a few memories of my own. There’s a peculiar kind of fear that grips you when you realise your biological clock isn’t just ticking, it’s practically ringing like an old-school alarm clock. I remember thinking mine had long since stopped by 40 – thankfully, life (and my son) proved me wrong. But back then, that fear was all too real.

Here’s Greyeyebrowgirl’s story – raw, witty, and painfully relatable.

The Gemma dilemma

Reality TV has never been known for its deep meanings or life lessons. That is, until last week. Normally, this apparently “real”, totally spontaneous (yeah right) and non-scripted (because they can’t read) TV fodder revolves around Kim Kardashian gushing about how blessed she is or those in Chelsea buying Dior handbags the way normal people buy Primark pants.

Despite the parading of fake tans, tears, and tantrums, I love it. Yes, I’m a grown, semi-functioning adult with actual responsibilities yet spend my Wednesday and Sunday evenings glued to TOWIE. The shame is real.

The glamorous, orange-tinged lives of Essex’s finest have me hooked. I’m in love with Pete “the pirate” Wicks, envy the eyelash extensions, and marvel at the cast’s concave stomachs despite their constant boozing and brunching.

But recently, the last few episodes have made me cry. Proper, snotty, real-human tears. Not just because of the death-defyingly high heels, but because I realised – I am Gemma Collins.

The fear is real

Like Gemma, I’m staring down the barrel of my mid-thirties with no husband, I have no sperm donor, and an ever-louder biological clock. At 34 (35 in a few weeks), I’ve yet to meet a man I’d trust to make me scrambled eggs, let alone fertilise my actual ova.

Most of my friends now have babies – real ones, with opinions, friendships, and social calendars. I love them dearly, but I’d imagined I’d have my own by now. Instead, I’m the last single, unfertilised one in the group, listening to others complain about sleepless nights while secretly wishing it were my turn to be woken by a crying baby.

Weighing up my options

I’ve started looking into egg freezing. From what I’ve read, the NHS won’t cover it unless you have a medical condition, and private treatment costs around £4,000 – which is laughable when I don’t even have a spare £40. Besides, the thought of being told my eggs have “expired” might just send me over the edge.

Coming from a traditional Asian family, showing up pregnant without a ring would be unthinkable. So I’m stuck between biology, tradition, and the deep, aching want for motherhood. And it hurts.

Word of advice

To all the mums reading this – I get it. The exhaustion, the chaos, the endless nappies. But please, spare a thought for those of us who’d give anything to be in your shoes. The things that make you sigh with frustration are the very things we ache for.

And to those who are happily child-free, I salute you. Your choice is valid, powerful, and yours alone. As for me – I’ve got womb ache, a crush on Pete Wicks, and maybe, just maybe, a Tinder account to open.