Pregnant in a new country, weeks before my birth the unthinkable happened

In my early 20s, I moved to London determined to become a writer. What I didn’t expect was that London would also be where I’d become a mother.

My daughter was born in the heart of a deep, blustery January, when the sun barely showed its face and the days blurred into nights. I was thousands of kilometres from home, with my family in Australia and my sense of self untethered. I’d always imagined motherhood would be grounding, but instead I felt adrift, grieving a version of myself I could no longer reach. I didn’t know a single other parent in the city. I wasn’t just navigating sleepless nights, I was confronting isolation like I’d never known.

Then a friend mentioned she knew another new mum who lived nearby. I reached out. We didn’t have much in common, at least not on paper, but we quickly became each other’s lifelines. We signed up for baby yoga and massage classes, and even when the sky looked threatening and I’d slept no more than three hours, I made myself leave the house. I never once regretted it.

Author Saman Shad had to find a new community for support each time she gave birth, in three separate countries.Credit:

More friendships followed. A mum in the neighbourhood, a photographer, became a close confidante. Our daughters got on brilliantly. She understood my desire – no, my need – to write, even in the chaos of new motherhood. She began babysitting for a few hours at a time so I could sneak off to a cafe and reconnect with my creative self.

Slowly, a village began to form around me: women who cheered me on, lent me baby clothes, made me laugh when I felt like crying. They turned the grey of London into something warm and bright.

Then, when my daughter was 18 months old, my husband was offered a job in Dubai. It felt like a new adventure: sunshine, travel, possibility. But it also meant starting from scratch, again.

I turned to online mum’s groups, typing out messages at 3am asking if anyone wanted a playdate.

SAMAN SHAD

Dubai was dazzling and disorienting in equal measure. While my husband adjusted to a fast-paced job and unfamiliar culture, I was on a different journey entirely. I turned to online mums’ groups, typing out messages at 3am asking if anyone wanted a playdate. But it wasn’t the online community that saved me, it was the neighbours.

The woman next door also had a toddler and before long we were popping in and out of each other’s flats like old friends. Then I met another mum in the lift; she spotted my daughter in her pram and mentioned she had a son the same age. I was quickly welcomed into a group of mums from around the world, each of us far from home and figuring things out together.

When I became pregnant again, I was surrounded by this surprising, stitched-together support network. Another friend from a writing course in London had coincidentally moved to Dubai and was also expecting. One mum was Scottish, like my husband. We’d share late-night texts, hand-me-downs, stories of joy and struggle. They were the women I leaned on when, just weeks before my due date, my husband lost his job.

The security that job provided – our visa, our health insurance – vanished overnight. It was terrifying. And yet we got through it. Our son was born healthy and safe. Six weeks later, we were on a flight to Sydney. Back to the city I’d grown up in, but where I hadn’t truly lived for nine years.

In Dubai, Shad’s village rallied around her when her husband unexpectedly lost his job while she was expecting their second child.Credit: Bloomberg

Returning to Sydney was disorienting in its own way. My family were here – my parents, my aunties, cousins – but it didn’t feel like home. I’d been gone for so long, my adult life forged in other cities. I would say to people, “We’re here for now”, half-convinced we’d be off again in a year or two.

It took time. Years, in fact. But gradually, I found my feet. I gave birth to my third child in Sydney and this time felt different. I was no longer a brand-new mum. I was confident, seasoned even. I joined a mothers’ group through the local hospital and was surprised at how vital those connections became. Even with family nearby, I still needed my mum friends: the ones who understood the long nights, the school-gate politics, the general madness of it all.

My youngest is now nine. The mothers I met at my hospital group and playgroup have become some of my closest friends. We’ve seen each other through toilet training, birthday parties, job changes, heartbreaks and house moves. We’ve poured wine and tea in equal measure, and shared everything from preschool recommendations to existential crises.

When I reflect on my motherhood journey – three children in three countries – I realise that the greatest constant has been the women who showed up. Sometimes I reached out blindly, unsure of what I’d find. Other times I stumbled into friendships unexpectedly, in lifts or baby classes or WhatsApp groups. Each time, I had to make myself vulnerable. Each time, it was worth it.

We often talk of the importance of a village when it comes to raising children. What I’ve learnt is that building that village takes effort and courage. It’s not always immediate. You have to put yourself out there at a time when you’re already feeling fragile, exhausted and stretched thin. But the payoff is immense: for your mental health, your sense of belonging, and for the joy and security it brings to your children, too.

The Sex Lives of Married Women (Penguin Random House) by Saman Shad is out now.

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