Why did trying for a baby at 39 already feel like a medical risk?

I wasn’t pregnant.

H and I hadn’t even started trying for a baby. Yet somehow age had already entered the room. I was thinking about fertility, miscarriage, chromosomes and biological clocks before there was even a positive pregnancy test to worry about. That should probably have been the exciting bit, deciding we wanted to try.

Instead, my brain had assembled its own rather efficient list of everything that could possibly go wrong. Would I be fertile? Would H be fertile? How long would it take? What if we’d left it too late? Then came the thought I was rather less inclined to admit aloud: would getting older change how H saw me? Would age make me less desirable? There wasn’t even a pregnancy yet, and already I felt as though a clock had started ticking.

I knew age mattered biologically. I wasn’t looking for somebody to pretend otherwise.

What I hadn’t appreciated was how quickly contemplating motherhood in your late 30s could become a conversation dominated by statistics, risks and things that might go wrong.

There is an odd emotional gap between being informed about risk and being made to feel defined by it.

I was about to discover it.

My first GP appointment was illuminating, but overwhelming.

The conversation focused heavily on risk: miscarriage, chromosomal conditions and pregnancy complications.

Of course those things mattered. I wanted proper medical information, not false reassurance.

But sitting there listening to everything that could potentially go wrong, I felt the possibility of having a baby quietly turning into a list of hazards. Then I was asked whether I wanted a referral for fertility treatment.

We hadn’t even started trying.

I remember leaving with instructions to take folic acid and considerably more uncertainty than I’d walked in with.

There was a reason my age mattered.

Fertility declines with age, and current NHS guidance advises women aged 36 and over to see their GP sooner if they are having difficulty conceiving rather than automatically waiting a year. It also recommends that both partners attend where possible because fertility problems can affect either person. NHS: Diagnosis of infertility

The NHS recommends taking 400 micrograms of folic acid every day when trying to conceive, ideally starting three months beforehand, and continuing through the first 12 weeks of pregnancy. Some people need a higher prescribed dose depending on individual circumstances. NHS: Pregnancy vitamins and supplements

Age can also change the risk profile during pregnancy. For example, being aged 40 or over is one of several factors associated with a higher risk of pre-eclampsia. It is a risk factor, however, not a prediction of what will happen to an individual woman. NHS: Pre-eclampsia

Looking back, I wish the conversation had felt more individual.

Ask me about my health. Ask about my periods, medical history, medication, exercise and lifestyle.

Explain why I should start taking folic acid before conception, how much I need and whether anything in my medical history means I need a different dose.

Tell me when we should seek further help if pregnancy doesn’t happen.

And explain the risks associated with maternal age. But explain them in context.

Because “age changes risk” and “something will go wrong because you’re older” are not the same statement.

That distinction can become rather difficult to hear when you’re frightened.

I researched. A lot.

Possibly too much.

Nutrition. Supplements. Fertility. Miscarriage. Chromosomes. Maternal age.

I could start with one perfectly sensible question about folic acid and, three tabs later, find myself reading something terrifying about miscarriage.

This was before motherhood taught me that Googling anything involving a child after 10 p.m. is generally a poor life choice. The internet is remarkably good at giving an anxious woman another thing to worry about.

I wanted to prepare my body because preparation gave me something tangible to do. I ate well. I exercised. I took the recommended supplements. I tried to look after myself. Those things were worthwhile for my health.

But gradually I began to understand something less comfortable.

Preparation isn’t control.

You can look after yourself without turning conception into an exam you pass by eating enough leafy greens.

And you certainly shouldn’t interpret difficulty conceiving or a difficult pregnancy as evidence that you somehow failed to prepare properly.

That may be the part I wish I’d understood most clearly.

When you desperately want a baby, doing things feels reassuring.

Take this vitamin.

Eat this.

Avoid that.

Exercise.

Sleep.

Reduce stress.

It creates the comforting impression that if you assemble all the pieces correctly, your body will reward you with the outcome you want. Biology isn’t quite so obliging.

There were sensible things I could do for my health before pregnancy. There were also things I simply couldn’t control.

Learning the difference was harder than swallowing a prenatal horse pill.

That was the uncomfortable bit.

Preparing gave me something to do with the fear.

But every new thing I learned also seemed capable of producing another question.

I wanted knowledge because knowledge felt like control. Eventually, I had to accept they weren’t the same thing.

The biggest challenge wasn’t creating the perfect pre-pregnancy routine.

It was learning how to live with uncertainty.

I could ask questions, seek proper medical advice, look after my health. What I couldn’t do was guarantee the ending. That’s where conversations about later motherhood sometimes fail women.

We hear plenty about managing risk and rather less about what it feels like to carry that knowledge around while still trying to remain hopeful.

Both can exist at once.

You can understand the statistics and still want the baby. You can be frightened and excited and you can prepare carefully and still know that some things are outside your hands.

Get informed, but don’t make fear your full-time occupation.

Ask what the risks actually mean for you, rather than allowing the word “age” to swallow the rest of the conversation.

Follow evidence-based preconception advice. And be wary of anyone, particularly online, who suggests you can optimise your way to a guaranteed pregnancy.

I eventually became a mum at 40. Looking back, I don’t think I needed more ways to prepare.

I needed somebody to tell me that responsible preparation and absolute control were two entirely different things.

If you considered pregnancy in your late 30s or 40s, did the medical advice make you feel informed, frightened or a bit of both?

What do you wish somebody had explained before you started trying?

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.