I met a stranger in a hotel room to try to get pregnant – and fled in horror

Telegraph

20-05-2025

As I fled the hotel room, heart pounding and hands sweaty, I clutched my bag and pulled my jacket tightly around me. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears filled my eyes. How had it all come to this?
Society tells you that becoming a mother is the most natural progression in a woman's life, but after years of trying, pursuing every route possible, it still hadn't happened for me. So, there I was, leaving my hotel room after a desperate encounter with a sperm donor I'd found online, clinging to one final hope of becoming a mother.
It was the summer of 2016, and I had been trying for a baby for four years.
Back in 2012, at 37, I was an international destination wedding photographer, living a life many envied – travelling the world and capturing couples at the start of their journey together. But beneath it all, I longed to be a mother. Though in a loving relationship at the time, I knew it wouldn't last. We had never discussed having children and I knew he wasn't the man I would spend the rest of my life with, so I decided to go it alone.
I had always wanted to be a mother but as an ambitious young woman my career had always come first. As I neared the age of 40 there was a realisation that although I had the rest of my life to find Mr Right, my time to conceive was limited, and would quickly run out.
Researching sperm banks
I researched sperm banks and knew they were regulated by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA), ensuring safety and ethics. However, UK donor information was limited – just a brief medical history and anonymity until the child turned 18. That didn't feel right. I wanted transparency, so I looked beyond the UK and found a Danish sperm bank offering donors from across Europe.
Eventually, I chose one from the Netherlands. His profile was everything I had hoped for – detailed medical records, a childhood photo, and a letter explaining why he chose to be an open donor. He was thoughtful, articulate and tall – which felt like a bonus – as I'm tall myself and naturally drawn to tall men. But most importantly, he felt real and safe.
A year earlier I had become pregnant the 'natural' way with my current partner, but I had hidden it from him, and then miscarried. However, despite losing the baby, medical tests had shown no issues with my fertility. Once I allowed myself to grieve, I was ready. I confirmed my choice – the Dutch donor whose sperm was stored by a fertility clinic in Denmark. I completed the paperwork, and arranged for the sperm to be shipped to my consultant in London, where it was frozen until I was ready to move forward. There would be enough sperm for multiple attempts, but of course I prayed success would come swiftly.
But by 2015, as I approached 40, the toll of four rounds of intrauterine insemination (IUI) and countless trips to London from Hampshire had drained me. I felt time slipping away – I had forever to find Mr Right, but just a few years left to have a child. Each failed attempt left me heartbroken, and aside from my mother's support, I felt utterly alone in the process. The cost of insemination quickly drained my savings – around £10,000 - and my desperation grew. I was single, but putting off any ideas of a relationship until I had settled into my life as a mother.
Meeting men online
One evening, after hours of late-night searching, I stumbled upon a UK site where men offered their sperm free to women struggling to conceive. I knew the risks but, consumed by my desire to become a mother, I decided to take the chance. It was like a dating site – swiping through profiles, hoping to find a match.
I connected with a donor and after exchanging personal details we met for a coffee to get to know each other. While certain personal details had to remain anonymous for our mutual protection, we both shared enough to feel reassured and comfortable moving forward. The one non-negotiable was that we each had to take an HIV test.
There were two options to attempt conception – the natural way or through insemination. I made it clear I preferred the latter. A friend who works in a hospital sent me what I needed for the procedure, I put my donor on standby, did my temperature readings every day and waited for the sign that my body was ready.
Eventually, the day came to try, and despite the nerves it felt strangely impersonal. We met at a hotel near Waterloo where I'd booked a room, and I left the supplies he needed in the bathroom while I waited anxiously in the lobby. Once he had emptied his sperm into a sterile test tube, he would leave it there for me to then transfer to a pipette and inseminate myself. As he descended the stairs, I rushed past him and up to the room, conscious not to waste any time, not even a second.
Afterwards, I called my friend who had sent the supplies to keep me company while lying with my legs up for as long as I could. It was a totally surreal experience with absolutely no emotional connection, but I remember being confident it was going to work.
It didn't.
We tried again, but this attempt failed too and the disappointment was overwhelming. I knew the odds were stacked against me, having just one chance per cycle and a success rate of around 10 per cent for women my age, but I was determined to keep going, despite the emotional toll.
Taking fertility medication
Eventually, I asked my donor if he'd be willing to proceed the 'traditional' way, and he agreed. To boost my chances, I started fertility medications to stimulate ovulation and increase the number of available eggs. Almost immediately I felt the effects – my emotions were in overdrive and my body out of balance. A few weeks later, I ovulated. We met again: same hotel, same purpose. It wasn't romantic, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The process was repeated once again – waiting, hoping, willing it to work, and ending in disappointment.
We tried one last time. On that occasion, I noticed his tablet propped up strangely against the wall and a wave of panic hit me – was he filming me? My stomach lurched. Heart pounding, I grabbed my things and fled, shaken to my core. What was I doing? I'll never know if he was planning anything that I hadn't consented to, but it made me realise that I'd put myself at serious risk; anything could have happened.
For over four years, my life had been on hold in the pursuit of pregnancy – tracking every cycle, spending my savings, and sacrificing potential relationships and happiness. I sat on the train home, tears falling down my face. I knew it had to stop.
Nothing ever prepares you for the emotional weight of that realisation – the sense of loss, the silence, the space where something was meant to be. It made me question my identity, my direction and what purpose could possibly fill the void. I had to make a living and knew I needed something meaningful to pour my energy into.
Finding a new obsession
Wedding photography stopped fulfilling me – it felt too painful and no longer brought me joy. Instead, I found myself drawn to the creative world of personal branding, capturing the stories of women building something of their own. That shift felt right, and my new business was steadily growing – until Covid hit in 2020 and everything went quiet.
Bookings vanished overnight and, like so many others, I was left staring into the unknown. But in that stillness, something stirred – a desire to create not just for myself, but for women like me: those rethinking their futures, craving connection, support, and a sense of possibility.
That's how Brand You 2020 was born: a Facebook community created to empower female entrepreneurs with inspiration, support, and practical guidance. It has since evolved into a collaborative, glossy magazine where women in business share their stories, expertise, and lift each other up – a platform rooted in real experience and collective growth.
In many ways, Brand You has become the baby I never had. I've since expanded it into an in-person event, Showtime – a day where like-minded women come together to support one another and learn how to grow their brand and business. On Oct 1 this year, more than 150 women will gather in London to cover every aspect of branding and entrepreneurship.
Last week, I turned 50. I've never felt happier or more fulfilled. I'm godmother to five wonderful boys – sons of friends – and I cherish my extended family and beautiful niece and nephew, whom I see whenever I can. I don't resent friends who were lucky enough to have children, nor do I want pity for a life that didn't follow the path I once imagined. My life is rich, positive and full of joy.
While I didn't get the life I once dreamed of, I'm deeply grateful for the life I've created. I'm proud of what I've achieved and the community I've built – and I know this journey wouldn't have been possible had I become the mother I once hoped to be.
As told to Emily Cleary
IUI vs IVF: How the different fertility treatments compare
Intrauterine insemination (IUI)
A quick procedure that involves injecting the highest quality sperm directly into the uterus during ovulation to fertilise the eggs naturally.
The process, which often involves the patient taking fertility medication to stimulate ovulation, reduces the time and distance sperm has to travel, making it easier to fertilise the egg.
Before being injected, the sperm goes through a process called 'sperm washing' that collects a concentrated amount of healthy sperm from the semen.
IUI is often recommended as the first step for couples struggling to conceive because it's less expensive and less invasive than IVF. It costs about $300-$1,000 (£230-£766) without health insurance.
The procedure has lower success rates per cycle and is not always suitable for those with severe fertility problems.
IUI can also increase the chances of having twins or triplets.
In vitro fertilization (IVF)
A more invasive process that involves externally fertilising an egg with sperm in a lab, before transferring the resulting embryo into the uterus.
IVF has a higher success rate than IUI, but it can depend on factors including age and the number of healthy eggs carried in a woman's ovaries.
IVF is a multi-step process that can involve about six to eight visits over four weeks. It involves the woman taking medication to mature her eggs and prepare them for fertilisation.
The eggs are removed through a minor surgical procedure and mixed with sperm in a lab to help fertilise them. If the sperm has lower motility, they can be injected directly into the eggs. One or more embryos are then placed directly in the uterus.
The average cost of an IVF cycle can range from $14,000 to $20,000 (£10,730-£15,330) in the US, depending on factors such as location and additional procedures.