'At 44, I'm still not ready to use my frozen embryos. I don't know if I ever will.'

I've always known I wanted to be a mum. From my kindy days, it was my immediate answer when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. ("And what else?" my progressive-for-the-time teacher prodded. Go, Miss Jane!).

In the '80s, I gentle-parented before it was even a thing. My dollies and stuffed toys were my babies and I mothered them like I was born to do it. No teddy went to bed without being tucked in and no Barbie lost her head on my watch!

So, if you'd told little me she'd one day be 44 and childless, you would have broken her huge, nurturing heart.

At 34, I tested my fertility.

I first investigated egg freezing at 34, after a pretty traumatic break-up. However, being informed of the expense (around $10k per cycle), the things that could go wrong — like cancelled rounds where you still have to foot a chunk of the bill, with no eggs collected — and the not-so-rosy statistics on live births, I decided to press pause.

I had naively assumed frozen eggs could just be defrosted, fertilised and — bam — nine months later, you had a bouncing baby in your arms. But, as with most things, egg freezing offers no guarantees.

My AMH was reassuringly high at the time (yes, fertility goddess!), so I thought I could chill for a couple of years. I figured I'd meet my person in that time and get things done the good old-fashioned way. Without invasive treatments or breaking the bank.

Watch: Liz Ellis talks about IVF on I'm A Celebrity. Post continues below.

At 36, mild panic set in, and I froze my eggs.

Fast-forward to 36, and my mythical tall, creative, funny and — crucially — clucky perfect man had not materialised. So, I decided to bite the bullet.

While 36 isn't the ideal age for egg freezing, I desperately needed to do something to regain some sense of control. And stem the tide of panic that has been rising every year.

My AMH had only dropped a little, so I was still expected to get a good number of eggs. I responded to the drugs well and had 22 big, juicy follicles. I was told I was potentially at risk of ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (OHSS), but I had no issues in the end.

My retrieval was fine, but not as fruitful as predicted. I ended up with 13 eggs out of the expected 22. This can happen due to things like poor egg quality, which (no surprise) is impacted by age. Eleven eggs were mature and they were put on ice.

A second round was suggested, but due to the cost, I decided I just had to hope I'd laid a golden egg. It only takes one, right?

Two years later, I did it again.

At 38, dating was dire and I was tying myself up in knots. I refused to waste my time on Mr Not-Quite-Rights (and missed out on a lot of fun, which I regret) and would only date real prospects, i.e. men who ticked a ridiculous number of boxes, including not having kids.

At the time, I was adamant I didn't want to be a stepmum. Not because I couldn't love someone else's kids, but because my inner control freak hated the idea of my life being dictated by another woman. Perhaps I should have been more open, as I was reducing the dating pool to a stagnant pond.

Anyway, I managed to bank another nine mature eggs. With a 20-egg insurance policy, I could, for now, breathe a sigh of relief.

The decision to go it alone.

Things went from bad to worse. I was perpetually panic-stricken and likely depressed. The pain of not being a mother was ever-present and Mother's Day and Christmas, with the influx of happy family social posts, were a special kind of hell.

However, it was the indecision that was killing me. I had to-and-froed so much I had whiplash.

Around this time, I had a few single women in my life who had gone down the donor route. After talking to them, I felt calm, inspired and excited. Now was the time. My decision was made — and what a bloody relief it was.

I made the appointments and went on a health kick. I started therapy (something I could have done a lot earlier, I'm sure you'll agree). I finally found the perfect anonymous donor — but that's a whole story of its own!

Everything was tracking along well. Until I fell apart.

With a lot of self-reflection, I realised I didn't want to be pregnant. Not like this. I felt deeply lonely and wanted someone by my side to share in the experience. I wanted a baby, but only as part of the traditional package. More than anything, I wanted to build a family with someone I loved. Basic, maybe, but it was how I felt at my core.

It seems I'm not alone, either, as around the world, only 6-20% of women come back to use their frozen eggs. And I 100% get it.

So, I went through with the IVF cycle, hoping I'd make some embryos (just in case), but with no intention of implanting them. I ended up with two, and they're now chilling with my eggs and leftover sperm — I decided not to fertilise my frozen eggs as I was hoping to use them with a future partner. Call me a cock-eyed optimist.

I finally thought I'd found a keeper.

About two years ago, I met a great guy with two young kids (I'm over my issues with that now). I thought he was the one and the way he doted on them had me convinced he'd love to have more, specifically with me. Guess what? I was wrong.

Despite being madly in love, we couldn't overcome the child issue. He was recently separated, and I think things may have been different if I could have afforded the decision more time. But time is the one thing I don't have.

And now I'm back in limbo.

Let's be real, at 44, it's probably already run out. I'm under no illusions that my eggs will definitely fertilise, or my embryos will stick.

Besides that, I'm worried I'm far too old, tired and perimenopausal to be a mum, and that it's not fair on the child. But the thought of missing out still obsesses me. And the direct debit that comes out for egg storage every six months presses on the wound.  

So, I'm back in the depths of my quandary.

Do I keep sifting through the vasectomies and "Have children, Don't want children" on Tinder to try to achieve a dream that seems increasingly out of reach? Or do I woman up and go it alone?

In some ways, I'll be relieved when the decision is made for me. But for now, I will keep bargaining with myself for more time.

Today, I've given myself six months. It sounds like forever, but I know it's the blink of an eye.

All I can hope for when this all plays out is something that's eluded me for a decade: peace and self-compassion.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remains anonymous for privacy purposes.

Feature image: Getty.