How does migration affect mental health and motherhood? And how can we prepare and protect ourselves from the risks we don’t always see coming?
We’re living in the age of globalisation. I was young when low-cost air travel exploded in the 1990s. Suddenly, flying became accessible to many more people—sometimes cheaper than a train ticket. Before then, migration tended to follow certain patterns: highly skilled professionals, intra-regional low-wage workers, or those seeking refuge.
But companies like EasyJet and Ryanair changed the game in Europe—making travel cheap, cheerful, and frequent. Migration became more casual, and cultural diversity more widespread. I think immigration and migration are great. It is fantastic to have the opportunity to experience different people and cultures.
I write this because mental illness can have many roots—and migration is one of them. As an expat, a mother, and an advocate for autism awareness, I think it’s important to explore how migration affects mental health, especially for families and parents of neurodivergent children.
My son is autistic. My family has a long history of migration. My grandparents migrated into a war zone. My parents later migrated out of one. And I became an expatriate myself when James was two.
Migration often means losing what feels familiar and safe. You trade family, structure, language, and predictability for the unknown. That uncertainty doesn’t always feel dramatic at first, but over time, it can chip away at your sense of stability and confidence. The social systems you once relied on—healthcare, education, childcare—are suddenly different, or gone entirely. You have to rebuild your support networks from scratch.
We moved to Thailand not long after my son’s diagnosis. But even before we left the UK, I was already feeling isolated. We had moved house in search of space for our growing family—a kind of local migration, but one that meant my nearest support was over an hour away by public transport. Motherhood had already brought challenges I hadn’t anticipated—and migration only magnified them.
Later, through James’ diagnosis, I began to recognise traits of neurodiversity in myself. As I explored autism and mental health more deeply, I started writing about them too. I wish I’d known more earlier—about the systems, the symptoms, and the ways neurodivergence and mental health can quietly intertwine. That’s why I now advocate for awareness, acceptance, and above all—prevention and preparedness.
There’s space, I believe, for better parental primary care. Not just post-partum, but pre-natal too. Especially for those who may already carry hidden or unspoken risk factors.
For me, mental health is a balance between physical wellbeing and self-awareness. I’ve found support in sharing my story, in connecting with others who understand, and in allowing myself space to reflect—without shame.
What helps:
1. Planning (especially around family)
Before migrating, it helps to understand the healthcare landscape—not just in theory, but in practice. What does a paediatric appointment look like? Is there insurance coverage for developmental or mental health support? What sensory experiences might come up in a hospital setting? For me, the healthcare system in Thailand was nothing like the GP-led care I was used to in the UK. Language barriers, traffic, and unfamiliar systems all added stress when I was already stretched thin.
2. Support systems
Online communities were a lifeline. The Expat Mummy Club, in particular, gave me space to find information and connect. Over time, more groups emerged—some focused on parenting, others on mental health or neurodiversity. These groups remind me that help can come from unexpected places.
3. Relaxation
Finding calm isn’t optional—it’s essential. I try to choose activities that give my mind rest. It’s not always easy to notice what’s stressing you out, but recognising it is the first step. Learning to stay present—without constantly anticipating disaster—has helped me cope better, both as a person and as a parent.
4. Action plans (with flexibility)
Plans do help—when I can write them. But I don’t punish myself if I can’t always follow through. Self-acceptance is key. I plan when I can, and when I can’t? I try to go gently. As my mum used to sing to me when I was little: que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.
This post is just one part of a much bigger conversation—about the mental health challenges that can arise with expatriate life, especially for families, and about the invisible layers that come with neurodiversity and motherhood.
As I prepare to join a panel to discuss neurodiversity and mental health, I hope to explore not just the difficulties—but the possibilities. How can we build systems of care that recognise complexity? How can we support parents before, during, and after migration—not just in crisis, but as part of meaningful, preventive care?
One topic close to my heart is Preparedness in Parenting. For me, it’s not about manuals or rigid frameworks. It’s about empowering parents with the awareness and tools to proactively navigate neurodiversity. How can systems become more inclusive, more compassionate, and more prepared? How can we foster stronger community connections and greater understanding for families in transition?
If any of this resonates with you, you’re not alone. Let’s keep the conversation going—across borders, across differences, and with compassion.
