I remember when I had my first child in my hometown in India. My biggest source of confidence and calm came from the simple fact that I had family and friends around me.
I could text my sister in the next room to take over my child’s nap time. I could mention the word “hunger,” and my mom would present three different meal options to choose from. I could ask my grandmother to co-sleep with my son while I took a bath—because he woke up the minute someone left his side (babies sure have a sixth sense, don’t they?).
I could ask my father to buy clothes from the local store 200 metres away because infants outgrow their outfits in the blink of an eye. And, of course, I had my husband to handle naps, diaper changes, and everything in between.
Despite having that incredible support system, I still felt like I had so much on my plate: feeding, burping, changing clothes, washing bottles, scheduling doctor visits, tracking growth, and managing the constant anxiety of being a new mom.
The postpartum blues were real. My family didn’t just help me physically; they were soundboards for all my worries and rage. They understood how drastically my life had changed and offered unconditional support.
By the time we moved to another city when I was four months postpartum, I felt much calmer and more confident because of the foundation they had helped me build.
Over the next four years, even though we lived away from my hometown, I carried an invisible safety net because my family was only a few hours away. When my husband travelled for work and both my son and I fell sick, we didn’t panic. We knew our family could step in, and that’s exactly what they did—they dropped everything and showed up. “I am so lucky!” I remember thinking.
I distinctly remember a brutal sleep regression phase at 26 months, when my husband and I were exhausted beyond belief, running on just a few hours of sleep each night. One night, we simply packed our bags at 11:00 PM and drove straight to my parents’ house. We called them only after we were sitting in the car, and their first response was, “Come, we are waiting!” We slept, recovered, ate a lot, and returned home two days later feeling reset.
As adults, you want to do things by yourself. You want to build your own family and be independent. But just knowing that we didn’t have to face everything alone provided immense solace.
Beyond family, there were friendships we had built with so much love over the years.
On days when I felt low or lonely from the lack of adult interaction, a friend would show up with food and board games just to cheer me up. As my son grew and made friends, I found my own sense of belonging with the other mothers. That little community helped shape my identity as a parent. We were all in the same boat, venting about shared experiences without needing to explain cultural contexts or technical details.
Moreover, the environment itself did not need any extra “figuring out.” The familiarity of growing up in the same environment was its own form of support. I didn’t have to second-guess what I said, hesitate before booking medical appointments, or adapt to a new system every single day.
Services were accessible. Care was available. Life felt manageable because it was familiar.
It was my village.
Parenting was still hard, but the blows were softened by the people and systems around us.
The Expat Reality
Then, four years later, we moved to Germany for a job opportunity.
My son was a preschooler, and while we were excited about exploring a new country, a layer of anxiety lingered underneath. We didn’t know the language or the culture, and most importantly, we were leaving our pillars of strength behind.
Parenting without a village means everything lands on your shoulders.
You have to become your own support system. There is no one to call in the middle of the night, and you must navigate your child’s shifting temperament while simultaneously figuring out your own identity in an unfamiliar place. It stretches you as a person, as a parent, and as a partner. It is mentally, physically, and emotionally draining.
I remember times when both my husband and I were sick and we didn’t know who to ask for help or how to even get up and cook. We managed those days with bread and butter. Screens became our support system when neither of us had the energy to play with our son.
I remember a particular day in winter when I developed bad frostbite because I didn’t know how I was supposed to dress for the snow! I now feel guilty for not stocking up on essentials on Saturday because we struggled on Sunday (We had grocery shops open 365 days back home!) Google Translate remains our most used app on the phone - because learning a new language as an adult takes time
So many rules to learn. So many systems to navigate. So many new ways to adapt.
Some days are bright. You connect with other parents at the Kita, the playground, or through local WhatsApp and Facebook groups. You begin to find your people. But building deep connections takes immense time and effort, especially when your capacity is already stretched to its limit.
Some days, you feel like you’ve made it. You take pride in surviving and thriving in a new country without your original support network.
Other days, reality hits you like a rock, and you wish things were different.
Even when you succeed, you still carry the weight of what it took to get there: the mental load, the coordination, the constant planning, and the energy required to navigate a foreign system.
Parenting as an expat is hard not because you aren’t capable, but because it tests you in ways you never anticipated! It gives you the chance to feel proud of how far you’ve come, while also reminding you to make space for the grief of raising your child without your village...
Finding Support on Your Expat Parenting Journey
If you’re struggling with the mental load of expat parenting, isolation, or navigating a new culture, you don’t have to carry it all alone.
As a Psychological Counsellor and Parent Coach, I support expat parents and immigrant families through the emotional challenges of raising children away from home—creating space to understand yourself, process what you’re carrying, and build a more connected relationship with your child.
You may not be able to recreate the village you left behind, but you can build new forms of support, connection, and belonging where you are now.
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