The Primal Wound: What Meghan Trainor's Surrogacy Photos Hide

When I read that the U.S. pop star Meghan Trainor had used a surrogate for her third child, I couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of sadness. The photos of her propped up against pillows, cradling her newborn daughter to her bare chest, face streaked with joyful tears, appear as if she’d just given birth herself. They seem staged to mimic the raw intimacy of delivery, a moment that’s both profoundly personal and uniquely physical.

That’s the first thing that troubles me. In our modern age, everything is curated for surface perfection, lives filtered through lenses until they gleam, leaving the unspoken human costs hidden.

But what truly unsettles me is the apparent disregard for the feelings of the tiny person in her arms. As an adoptive mother and foster carer, I’ve seen the pain of separation at its most intimate. I once believed adoption could wipe the slate clean, offering a clean break, a fresh start, a second chance at life. And in many ways, it does - adoption can be profoundly redemptive, a quiet miracle of chosen love. But the scars of that first severance remain, no matter how much tenderness is poured into the emptiness left behind. The wound may soften with time and care, but it never fully vanishes - it becomes part of the child’s inner landscape, a quiet echo that shapes how they navigate attachment, trust, and belonging for years to come.

I know that Meghan’s newborn daughter is genetically hers, and the surrogate was used as a gestational carrier, but that won’t necessarily prevent what Nancy Verrier referred to in her book as the ‘primal wound’ an infant suffers when separated from the ‘mother’ whose body nurtured them for nine months. Even when babies are separated at birth, the abrupt severing can leave them with a lifetime of anguish and yearning for what was lost, and in recent years science has offered an explanation for something that adoptees have always felt deep in their psyche - the phenomenon of microchimerism, where infant and mother exchange cells as well as nutrients and hormones during pregnancy. These cellular echoes linger, a biological reminder of the bond that’s been severed. For a surrogacy baby, that disconnection happens immediately after birth, transferring the child from the only world they’ve known - the surrogate’s body - to strangers, no matter how loving they may be.

I say this as the adoptive mother of a nearly 14-year-old girl whom I love as fiercely as my two children born to me. I would walk through fire for Megan, the same way any mother would for her child. Yet I’ve come to see, through quiet, painful conversations and watching her navigate her own difficult path, that even though she loves me deeply and without reservation, a part of her still carries a quiet, persistent longing for the woman whose body once sheltered her, whose heartbeat was her first rhythm. This ache persists despite the harm done to her in that womb, a reminder that love can heal much, but not everything can be rewritten.

Through my work as a foster carer, I’ve walked alongside countless adoptive parents during those tender, ten-day handover periods, watching as a child I’ve nurtured from birth is slowly entrusted to new arms. I’ve witnessed the years of grief and longing that often lead these wonderful people to adoption: the failed cycles, the miscarriages, the crushing silence after every hope is dashed. I understand the desperation that drives some toward surrogacy as a way to finally hold their own child. That heartbreak is real and raw, yet empathy for adult pain can’t erase the child’s experience, or the surrogate’s, or pretend that severing the gestational bond comes without its own deep cost.

It seems wrong to ignore the future anguish that a child might suffer, and then there are the power imbalances to consider - the wealthy using the bodies of poorer women, sometimes even putting their lives at risk because the complication rate for surrogates is higher due to incompatible immune systems, the demands of carrying multiples (common in IVF surrogacies), and the overall strain of a pregnancy that’s not genetically their own. Studies show surrogates face elevated risks of gestational diabetes, pre-eclampsia, postnatal haemorrhage, and caesarean sections, complications that can be life-altering or even fatal. And then there is the emotional toll - many surrogates report postnatal depression, feelings of exploitation, or the quiet grief of handing over a baby they’ve nurtured for nine months.

This is where I align so strongly with Louise Perry’s critique of surrogacy. As a feminist writer, Perry argues that the industry commodifies women’s bodies, turning wombs into rentable vessels and children into products. She points out how it exploits economic disparities, often pitting affluent commissioning parents against surrogates from lower-income backgrounds, sometimes in developing countries where regulations are lax. Perry emphasises that surrogacy snaps the primal mother-baby bond in two, ignoring the child’s best interests in favour of adult desires. It’s not just about consent or choice, she says, it’s about the inherent power dynamics and the long-term harm to both women and children.

I’m not judging Meghan Trainor or anyone else navigating the gut-wrenching path of infertility. There are no easy answers to the sorrow of their plight, and for some, surrogacy feels like the only route to parenthood. Trainor herself has been open about her health struggles during previous pregnancies, explaining that surrogacy was the ‘safest way’ to grow her family after medical advice.

But in our rush to celebrate these stories as triumphs of modern medicine and personal choice, we should perhaps pause to consider the unborn baby’s rights. That tiny person, forming in the darkness of a womb, isn’t a blank slate or a commodity to be transferred. They have a right to emerge into the world without the immediate rupture of separation. Science backs up the infant’s instinctive need for the familiar heartbeat, scent, and voice they’ve known since conception.

I’ve learned over the years that family isn’t just about genetics or perfect origins - it’s about showing up, day after gritty day, with love that bridges wounds. But we owe it to the next generation to build families in ways that minimise harm, not amplify it. Surrogacy can shift the burden of pain onto the most vulnerable in the transaction - the child and the surrogate.

Perhaps it’s time we rethink what ‘progress’ really means in the realm of reproduction. Because every baby deserves to begin life with their primal bonds intact. And every woman deserves dignity, not just effusive public gratitude or payment. In the glow of celebrity announcements, these truths risk being lost.