A single father’s surrogacy story of faith, despair, and rebirth—
One of the most grueling journeys in human history was the Israelites’ wandering in the Sinai Desert.
After God freed them from slavery, those newly liberated people discovered that the Promised Land was still out of reach, separated from them by forty years of desolation and hardship — and by a dream their ancestors had carried for four hundred years. That tragedy became a collective trauma, passed down through generations, and a benchmark for later struggles: if we survived forty years in the desert, there is no reason we cannot survive this as well.
My own private desert lasted four years. Like many of those who fled Egypt, I doubted my ability to make it through. In hindsight, it almost feels ironic — because it all began as an experiment. A small, nearly forbidden idea: to test myself and see how far I could really take it. I kept it to myself and let it develop quietly in my mind. As time passed, it stopped being a thought exercise and became a real possibility.
Without any deliberate planning, I found myself imagining scenes that not long before would have seemed absurd: walking down the street with a stroller, singing a baby to sleep, feeding and changing him. Strangely, it all felt completely natural — especially for a man who, for five decades, believed he was incapable of letting another human being inside the emotional fortress he had built around himself. At every family gathering, I already imagined the moment I would announce the news. Slowly, I began to see myself there — as a father.
Deciding to Begin a Surrogacy Journey
Once I understood this was no longer just an idea but an actual journey, I contacted an agency whose role was to find a surrogate and manage all the bureaucratic procedures with Israel’s Surrogacy Committee at the Ministry of Health. Even before a surrogate was found, I was required to undergo countless medical and psychological evaluations to prove that I was fit for the process.
At the same time, I began looking into egg donation. Since Israeli law does not allow egg donation within the country, I turned to a fertility doctor I had been working with at the time, who collaborated with a clinic abroad. Choosing an egg donor was an especially strange experience — reviewing profiles that felt like a return to the many dating sites I had visited over the years, all while knowing that the woman I chose would be the biological mother of my child. Days and nights passed in deliberation, and in the end I chose the woman with the kindest eyes. My sperm was then sent abroad, where the eggs were fertilized, the embryos frozen, and later shipped to Israel.
Around that same time, I told my mother. During one of our routine walks, without any preparation, I shared with her the biggest project of my life. I had no idea how she would react, especially since I still carried a constant doubt about whether, at 49, I was truly capable of raising a child alone.
Her response — filled with excitement — left me stunned:
“What a coincidence. I wanted to suggest this idea to you, but I didn’t know how.”
From that moment on, she became my anchor. Whenever the difficulties piled up and she saw me approaching a breaking point, she repeated the same sentence:
“The moment you hold the baby in your arms, you’ll understand that everything was worth it.”
I learned long ago that mothers are usually right.
When Everything Began to Fall Apart
A year passed. I had completed all my obligations, but finding a surrogate became a real problem. Repeated inquiries with the agency led nowhere. The same answer came back again and again: be patient. Days, weeks, and months passed — and nothing happened. I was emotionally exhausted. I tried to be pragmatic, convincing myself that perhaps someone up there was hinting that fatherhood simply wasn’t meant for me. As usual, my mother saw it differently.
“On the contrary,” she said. “Someone up there is testing you. Be patient.”
Nearly two years later, a surrogate was finally found. My mother and I were so excited that we began talking about who the baby might resemble, whether it would be a boy or a girl. We were naïve enough to believe that this marked the end of my grueling private desert.
It didn’t.
The next difficulty arrived quickly: the contract with the surrogate, drafted by the agency that had connected us. I was uncomfortable with several clauses and chose to hire a separate attorney, delaying the process by several more months and draining thousands more from my already shrinking budget. On top of that, the committee demanded repeated medical tests, as some of the original results were deemed insufficient. More delays followed.
Eventually, the Surrogacy Committee approved the contract. The future suddenly looked promising; I could finally see a way forward. That’s when fate decided to challenge me even further.
By pure coincidence, I came across a news article about a case in the field of fertility medicine, involving serious allegations that had been reported in the media. The details were deeply unsettling. At the time, the matter had not yet been legally resolved.
Shortly afterward, it became clear that the developments being reported were also affecting my personal process.
I found myself without a doctor and without access to my embryos. Panic set in. Where were my embryos? Was there any way to verify that they were healthy?
Then, unexpectedly, I received a call from a medical professional who had been involved in the process. He presented his position and stated that he was not connected to the allegations that had been reported. He explained that under the circumstances he could no longer continue accompanying me or perform the transfer, but emphasized — according to him — that my embryos were completely healthy, as the reported case involved a different context. He provided contact details for a staff member from his office who was supposed to help locate the embryos in Israel and facilitate access to them.
Despite his assurances, I couldn’t calm down. The distrust ran too deep. After everything I had been through, I couldn’t rely on promises alone. I consulted additional fertility doctors, trying to understand whether there was any way to definitively confirm the embryos’ condition. None of them had a clear answer. Each conversation ended with more uncertainty, more expense, and more delay added to a journey that already felt endless.
The Final Battle
That was when the final battle arrived. In accordance with the agreement approved by the Surrogacy Committee, I asked to ensure beyond any doubt that the fetus carried by the surrogate was indeed mine, and requested a DNA test based on the amniocentesis results, which — thankfully — showed no abnormalities. I insisted on including this clause in the agreement in light of the serious mix-ups that had occurred in the country in recent years. The request was submitted to the court and forwarded to the State Attorney’s Office. They objected. Correspondence dragged on, days passed, and the tension intensified.
What I feared most came to pass. During an ordinary workday, I received the call from my attorney, and in that moment I felt myself collapsing right at the finish line. I was angry. I cursed. I felt hatred — not toward any specific person, but toward the entire situation: the helplessness, the sense that after everything I had endured, I still had to fight for one basic certainty — knowing that my daughter was truly mine. Sleep disappeared, and the long, exhausting journey threatened to unravel at the very last moment.
The Promised Land
And then Sara was born.
In a single moment, all the tension dissolved.
The hardships of the journey faded into a distant memory.
In the end, the mission was complete, and I became a father to a baby girl who looks more like me than identical twins resemble each other.
My arduous journey through my private desert was complete. I reached the Promised Land wounded, battered, and utterly exhausted — but I arrived.
Unlike Moses, I was allowed to enter.
Names and identifying details have been omitted or altered. Any references to third parties reflect my personal experience at the time and are presented in general terms only. This account does not purport to establish factual or legal conclusions.te factual or legal conclusions.
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If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
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