‘Rent My Womb’: Women Are Desperate to Become Surrogates in Mexico

MEXICO CITY — Leti Montalvo swooped up her tottering 16-month-old and perched him on her hip as she cooked eggs for her 9-year-old daughter, keeping her eyes on the six other children jumping outside on a trampoline. Their squeals competed with the banging on the second floor, where her husband was helping install a second bathroom. Thirteen people live in the house, eight under the age of 10.  

A small woman with hair dyed a deep auburn color, Montalvo, 29, sleeps in one room with her husband and four children. Her in-laws and their kids occupy the other two bedrooms. Life is hard, but it’s nothing compared to 2020, when the pandemic left her husband without an income and a gang forced her family out of their home. With no money coming in, they survived on beans. Montalvo was desperate, so in February 2021, she opened Facebook on her phone and drafted a message. 

“Hello,” she wrote in Spanish, in block letters against a peach background. “I am available to rent my womb and make future parents happy.”

The responses poured in. Eight surrogacy agencies and ten couples seeking to hire a surrogate directly reached out, Montalvo said. Too distressed to investigate them properly, Montalvo picked the agency that pledged to move the fastest. They promised her $12,500, three times as much money as her husband normally earns in a year. 

Montalvo is one of a surging number of Mexican women signing up to become surrogates for Americans and Europeans desperate to have babies. Recent global events have fueled Mexico’s appeal: The Russian invasion led to the decline of Ukraine’s once-booming surrogacy industry, a growing number of middle-class Americans are seeking a cheaper surrogacy alternative, and a 2021 Mexican Supreme Court ruling struck down a state ban on foreigners and same-sex couples hiring surrogates. 

“I think it’s the fastest-growing market in the world, especially for same-sex couples, because of cost issues and the proximity to the U.S.,” said Sam Everingham, global director of Growing Families and an expert on international surrogacy who’s based in Australia. 

In the best of circumstances, international surrogacy is a win-win. Surrogates in Mexico stand to make between $10,000 and $15,000, a life-changing amount of money for many of them, although a pittance compared to the $50,000-$75,000 paid to surrogates in the U.S. Many plan to use the money to pay for day-to-day expenses, while others see it as a means to finish school. More than anything, they see surrogacy as an investment in their own children’s future. 

For aspiring parents, the surrogacy process in Mexico is a relative bargain: about $70,000 for the entire process, compared to $130,000-plus in the U.S. It also tends to be much faster because the pool of surrogates in Mexico is bigger. And with commercial surrogacy banned throughout most of Europe, Mexico offers a viable alternative for many foreigners.

U.S. surrogacy agencies also have a bigger profit margin operating in Mexico. In the U.S., more than a third of the fee goes to the surrogate, but in Mexico it’s generally less than 20 percent. Some international agencies that advertise services in Mexico subcontract the process to a local surrogacy agency or clinic, taking a cut of the money.  

But the surrogacy boom in Mexico has grown faster than the regulations to oversee it, putting both surrogates and intended parents at risk of exploitation. Fertility clinics are loosely supervised, and surrogacy agencies and brokers operate without any oversight whatsoever. The practice is regulated in just two of Mexico’s 32 states—Tabasco and Sinaloa. Two other states explicitly don’t recognize surrogacy agreements, and 28 states say nothing at all. In the absence of regulation, a flourishing market has taken off. 

While many surrogacy journeys end happily, horror stories have emerged: surrogates who received far less money than promised; intended parents cheated out of tens of thousands of dollars; and foreigners stranded in Mexico because they can’t get a passport for their baby. 

In 2020, baby twins born through surrogacy were abandoned at a Mexican hospital. The surrogate, who was carrying the babies for a couple living in the U.S., suffered complications when she was six months pregnant and had to undergo a C-section. One of the babies was born with serious cognitive deficits and physical impairments. 

The surrogate had suffered multiple health problems during the pregnancy, she said in an interview with local radio station MVS News, including low blood sugar and fainting, but the surrogacy agency told her to just rest at home. When she finally went to the hospital, the doctors were more concerned about the unborn babies, she said. “They didn’t ask me anything about me, or my health.”

She was sent home on public transportation after the C-section, she said, adding that she visited the babies daily because hospital staff told her she’d be sued for desertion if she didn’t. As the birth mother, she was the twins’ legal guardian. Mexico’s child services agency eventually placed the twins with a foster family, but authorities still investigated her for abandonment. It’s unclear what happened to the intended parents from the U.S. 

“What I went through was truly horrible,” she said. “I never imagined it was going to turn out like this. It was the last thing I ever imagined.”

The agency, FertyCare, still operates in Mexico City. Santiago Valadez, FertyCare’s administrator, said the story relayed by the surrogate isn’t accurate but that he couldn’t go into detail, citing confidentiality clauses. “We are accompanied by lawyers and doctors. We always do everything in the most transparent way possible,” he said, adding that he wants Mexico City to regulate surrogacy. “It would give us rules to follow. It would be better for everyone.”

“You need a license to do my nails. But you don’t need a specific license to run a surrogacy agency,” said April Hovav, a postdoctoral scholar at Occidental College who studied surrogacy in Mexico. “You don’t need to be a doctor or a lawyer or a social worker. You have people, whether they have good intentions or not, coming in and they’re not prepared to manage all that they end up dealing with.” 

For Montalvo, the idea to become a surrogate started with a Mexican soap opera, The Rose of Guadalupe. One of the main characters struggles to get pregnant, so her mom offers to become a surrogate and carry the baby for her daughter. The Catholic Church criticized the episode but when Montalvo saw it, she thought, “Is that for real?” 

Years later, when Montalvo raised the idea of becoming a surrogate with her husband, David Rebollar Carreño, he initially balked, fearing it was an excuse to steal her organs and sell them on the black market. They are childhood sweethearts—they met when she was 16 and he was 14—and he dotes on her. 
 
Even with the worst of the pandemic over, money is tight. Rebollar earns around $10 a day working 12-hour shifts at the Central de Abasto, the largest produce market in Latin America. It’s enough to buy meat and fruit, but often not enough for soap and other household needs.

Montalvo took a psychological exam to ensure she was mentally fit to become a surrogate. Among the questions: Was she sad? Did she have a temper? After that and other tests to ensure she was physically healthy, Montalvo went to an office in Mexico City and signed the contract with the intended father, a single man from Spain. They haven’t talked since, as the agency restricts direct communication. 

According to Montalvo, the contract said she would be paid $250 after the embryos were implanted—a 30-minute procedure in which a needle is used to insert the embryos into the surrogate’s uterus through her vagina. The eggs are donated, so the embryos have no genetic link to the surrogate. If she became pregnant, Montalvo would receive $500 every month until giving birth, when she’d receive the remainder of the money. She was also told she would get health insurance. 

But Montalvo, like most of the surrogates interviewed by VICE World News, doesn’t have a copy of her contract or the health insurance policy. Montalvo’s recollection was that the contract “more or less said that when the baby is born, I have to turn him over.” 

The surrogacy market is so opaque in Mexico it’s impossible to know how many surrogacies happen a year, or how often problems arise, because neither Mexican nor U.S. authorities keep track. The U.S. Embassy told VICE World News that surrogacy is legal for foreigners in most of Mexico but also that Mexican courts “may fail to enforce surrogacy agreements” and “Mexican authorities have made arrests stemming from surrogacy cases.” 

Those desperate to have babies are undeterred. The number of agencies operating in Mexico has doubled to about 30 since 2020, said Ernesto Noriega, owner of Egg Donor Miracles, a surrogacy agency based in the resort cities of Puerto Vallarta and Cancun. They vie for foreign clients through fixed-cost deals, unlimited tries, and “guaranteed” babies. 

“The market is growing too much, and at one point those companies without ethics are going to commit a huge error and it could force everything to close,” Noriega said. 

Evidence of the booming market can be seen on Facebook, where recruiters aggressively look for potential surrogates. 

“Do you want to be one of our mama storks and at the same time complete your dreams and goals? Enjoy the benefits this labor offers you.”

“We take care of you at all times.”

“Looking for women between 24 and 35 who want to be surrogates. Compensation $11,500. EVERYTHING IS LEGAL AND TRUSTWORTHY.”

The requirements are basic: No older than 35, in good health and responsible, and with at least one biological child—an attempt to ensure surrogates don’t unexpectedly make a claim to the baby. In most Mexican states, the birth mother is considered the child’s legal parent, and surrogates have to cede their parental rights after the baby’s birth. 

Promises of easy money are overblown. Surrogates often have little understanding of what their rights are, what kinds of questions they should ask before signing a contract, what sorts of conditions they can demand—such as pregnancy clothes or transportation expenses—or what kind of health insurance they are being given, if any. When things go wrong, they have little recourse. 

In 2015, Carmen became a surrogate for a Mexican couple. The 28-year-old  had gone to a clinic to donate her eggs, when a woman who worked there suggested she become a surrogate instead. Carmen said the woman, who served as an intermediary between surrogates and intended parents, promised her $150,000 pesos, around $7,500. As soon as she became pregnant, she felt treated like merchandise. “I would arrive at the clinic and the doctor would say, ‘Lay here, open your legs, I am checking you, OK.’ They explained absolutely nothing to me.” 

The intermediary constantly misled her, Carmen said, including forcing her to cover some of the medications surrogates must take as part of the fertility treatment and also underpaying her. When she gave birth, Carmen was owed $4,000, she said, but received only $3,000. The intermediary told Carmen that was her fee, something she said they had never discussed until that point. 

Carmen felt cheated and emotionally drained. But earlier this year, she decided to become a surrogate again to help pay for household needs. This time, however, she negotiated the deal herself. She made a post on Facebook about renting her womb and directly connected with a South American couple living in Mexico. They signed a contract for $10,000. It’s less money than some of the other agencies promise, but Carmen said she has more confidence they will fulfill their side of the bargain. She’s now pregnant with twins and expects to give birth in March. She asked to omit her full name to avoid problems with the intended parents. 

“If I need anything, or am I missing medicines, I tell them directly, and they buy it for me or give me the money to buy it. More than anything, there’s dialogue and trust between us.”

Even when pregnancies go smoothly, some surrogates say they feel blindsided by the process.

Laura, who is 22 weeks pregnant for a gay couple from New York, extensively researched surrogacy before signing with an agency. Laura asked to be identified only by her middle name because she hasn’t told friends and colleagues that she is a surrogate. A mother of a 6-year-old, Laura signed a contract for 300,000 pesos, or $15,000, and plans to use the money to finish her university studies. 

But Laura, 27, didn’t think to ask about whether she could have a vaginal delivery—she assumed that was the norm. It’s not: Most agencies in Mexico require surrogates to have a C-section, regardless of whether it’s medically necessary, so that the birth is fast and scheduled. 

But C-sections carry a higher chance of infection and make future pregnancies riskier. Laura, who has never had surgery before, is terrified. She told the agency she wants a vaginal delivery, but they pushed back. They told her it was better for the intended parents to have a C-section for planning purposes and suggested that because she became pregnant through IVF, the surgery was medically necessary, she said. 

That's false, said Irene Stafford, an expert in fetal medicine and associate professor at the McGovern Medical School in Houston. “There is no reason a surrogate who undergoes IVF treatment would automatically need to have a C-section,” she said.

Laura couldn’t stop thinking about the surgery. “I wouldn’t have become a surrogate if I had known.”

Some feminist groups in Mexico are pushing to ban surrogacy altogether, like in France, Germany, Italy and Spain. Teresa Ulloa, regional director for the Coalition Against Trafficking of Women and Girls in Latin America and the Caribbean, compared surrogacy to organ trafficking.

“Even if there are laws [regulating surrogacy], that doesn’t guarantee that women’s rights will be respected. And much less so when there is hunger and desperation.” 

But GIRE, a leading reproductive rights group in Mexico, argues that banning surrogacy will only push the practice underground. “The practice will continue, but in secrecy, and that puts all the parties at greater risk,” said Verónica Esparza, the group’s investigative coordinator. “What’s happening now is the state can’t offer protections or monitor the conditions under which these contracts are carried out.” 

Surrogacy is also unregulated in the U.S., but agencies face a greater risk of legal action if they mess up. San Diego-based Surrogacy Beyond Borders, which offered surrogacy in Mexico, is defending against a lawsuit brought by former clients that alleges the company misappropriated their money and didn’t provide surrogates with adequate health care. A trial is set to start on February 17. The FBI has also opened an investigation into the company.

Intended parents are much less likely, however, to file legal actions against Mexican agencies, said Everingham, the expert on international surrogacy.  

“Suing a business in another country, in another language, when they are not a resident is just too hard,” he said. “They got ripped off to the ninth degree. But they got a baby at the end of the day.”

One American woman said the surrogacy agency she hired in Mexico tried to charge her for a second embryo transfer when she had already paid for it, as well as a second set of maternity clothes and nine months of expenses. When she reached out to the owner, he responded, “Where and how did you get my email address?” She eventually decided to switch agencies, she said, losing $20,000.  

For Montalvo, surrogacy has proven a lot harder than she bargained for. After signing the contract with the intended father, she learned she had an ovarian cyst that needed to be removed. The procedure, which the agency paid for, delayed the process by about a month. It was delayed another six months because Montalvo didn’t have all her paperwork in order.

Every trip to the fertility clinic takes around two hours each way on public transportation, a cost she has to cover. In June, she had her first embryo transfer. For the two weeks before and after, she was given eight medications to take daily, including estrogen pills, folic acid, vitamin supplements, and prednisone, a strong anti-inflammatory steroid. Her belly swelled from all the medication.

She had already decided how she would think about the baby growing in her womb—like one of her nieces or nephews. “I give a lot of love to all my nieces and nephews. I treat them like they are my own.”

But the embryos didn’t implant in her uterus; she wasn’t pregnant. In September, she had a second transfer. It, too, failed. The agency paid her the agreed-upon $250 after each transfer, but Montalvo felt depressed and upset. 

Still, she isn’t ready to give up. Later this month, she’s going to start taking the medicines again in preparation for a third embryo transfer. She has already decided that if that doesn’t work, she will try again with a different agency. 

Becoming a surrogate is “what I most want,” she said, as her four children played upstairs. Her 9-year-old daughter dreams of studying gastronomy; her 7-year-old son wants to become a policeman. 

“I want a better future for my kids,” she said. “I don’t want them stuck where I am.”