Navigating motherhood as an Expat without the village

There’s a saying that “it takes a village to raise a child.”
No one really tells you what it feels like to do it without one.

I never imagined I would become a mother so far away from home. So far away from my family. From the people who raised me. From the women who would instinctively know what to do when my baby is sick, fussy, or just not himself.

Yet here I am - in a beautiful city, in a life I chose - raising my son without the village I always assumed would be part of motherhood.

And some days, it’s really, really hard.

It’s especially hard when he gets sick.

When he’s coughing all night. When he can’t sleep. When he doesn’t eat. When he just wants to be held and you’re running on two hours of broken sleep and cold coffee. When you’re Googling symptoms at 3 a.m., calculating dosages, second-guessing every decision.

Those are the moments when the weight of doing this alone hits the hardest.

Because when you don’t have a village, there’s no one to tag in. No grandma to take over for a few hours. No aunt to cook soup. No one to say, “Go sleep, I’ve got him.” It’s just you. And your partner. Again. And again. And again.

And no matter how much you do, it always feels like it’s not enough.

I think one of the quietest struggles of motherhood - especially expat motherhood - is this constant feeling that you’re falling short. That other parents have it more together. That other families have more help. More support. More energy. More patience.

You look at other people and think, They must have it easier.

But the truth is… everyone is struggling. Just in different ways, and in different languages, and behind different doors.

Some people struggle with support. Some with money. Some with health. Some with relationships. Some with burnout. Some with all of it at once.

Motherhood is beautiful - but it is also relentlessly demanding. And doing it without your people makes it heavier in ways you don’t fully understand until you live it.

The hardest part for me is that I never imagined this version of motherhood.

I always pictured being surrounded by family. Sunday lunches. Random drop-ins. A house full of noise and hands and opinions and love. I didn’t picture video calls. Or sending photos to group chats. Or my son growing up with relatives he mostly sees through a screen.

And then… there’s home.

When we go back to visit, everything feels right in a way that’s hard to explain. My son is passed from arm to arm. There’s always someone talking to him, playing with him, feeding him, loving him. I can breathe differently there. I’m not on duty every second. I’m still his mom - but I’m not alone in it.

I get a glimpse of the motherhood I thought I’d have.

And then we leave.

And that’s the part that breaks my heart every single time.

Because I’m not just leaving my home. I’m leaving his village. I’m leaving the version of his childhood where he’s constantly surrounded by people who adore him. And I’m bringing him back to a life where it’s mostly just us again.

I’m grateful for our life. For Amsterdam. For what we’ve built. For the experiences we’re giving him. For the strength we’ve discovered in ourselves.

But two things can be true at once.

You can love your life and still grieve the one you thought you’d have.

You can be strong and still be tired.

You can be grateful and still feel lonely.

And you can be a good mother and still feel like you’re not doing enough.

If you’re an expat mom reading this, especially in the middle of a hard week or a sick-kid season, I want you to know this:

You are not failing.
You are not weak.
You are doing the work of ten people with the hands of two.

One day, we will look back at this season and realize how much strength it took.

And maybe, just maybe, this will become part of our children’s story too - that they were raised by parents who were brave enough to build a life far from home, even when it was hard.

Even when there was no village.