My mornings are simple.
I wake up around 8:30 a.m., my daughter is still beside me, and I have about twenty minutes to turn myself into a working adult before my first class begins. I quietly move through the room, reaching for my laptop, washing my face, and making tea. The essentials are always within arm’s reach: her blanket, diapers, water, because motherhood doesn’t pause just because work is about to start.
I teach from my bedroom. Some mornings she sleeps through my classes. Other times, she wakes up mid-lesson, and I lift her into my arms, holding her close while I continue speaking. The camera only shows my face. Students never see the quiet balancing act happening just below the frame.
This is what motherhood abroad looks like for me: not dramatic, not glamorous, but deeply intentional. But it could be the same thing other women are going through across the world.
When Work and Care Blur
By midday, the house feels more alive. If I have a break between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m., that time belongs to my daughter. When my daughter wakes up, my mother, my greatest support, often helps with her breakfast. If I’m free, I take over. We sit together on the floor. She plays. I try to eat. Or we share from the same plate, because she insists.
Lunch isn’t really about food anymore. It’s about presence.
I chose to work from my bedroom rather than create a separate office because proximity matters to me. I want her to feel me near, even when I’m working. She is always welcome in my space. That closeness grounds both of us.
Working from home as a single mother is perfect for my daughter and me because we are in each other’s presence throughout the day.
Dealing with work-related isolation
I don’t often feel lonely because of motherhood.
My mother lives with me, and her presence fills many of the gaps that life abroad can create. What I feel more often is work-related isolation. Teaching online means limited human interaction. Once my classes end, the silence can feel heavy.
But the emotion I wrestle with most is guilt, the ever-looming motherhood guilt.
Am I spending enough time with her? Am I present enough? Even when I know I’m doing my best, guilt still finds a way in. So I respond with intention. When I’m not teaching, she has my full attention. She is always allowed into my world.
To care for myself, I’ve learned to step outside the house again. Several evenings a week, after my classes end, I go out, sometimes to meet friends, sometimes just to walk and remind myself that I exist beyond the walls of my home and virtual classroom.
Balancing identity, work, and motherhood abroad is something I’m still learning how to do.
Letting Go of Perfection
Evenings taught me my hardest lesson: release control.
Before becoming a mother, I kept a tidy, structured home. Now, the house looks lived in. My daughter follows me everywhere. If I clean, she clings to my leg. If I cook, she wants to be carried.
I stopped fighting it.
The house doesn’t need to be perfect. She needs me more.
Our evenings are ritual-driven now. She’s usually already had dinner when I return home. I breastfeed her briefly, then we bathe together. I take her into the shower, wash her, wrap her in a towel, and hand her to my mother, who helps with lotion and pajamas while I finish up.
She knows the routine. Bath means sleep.
By midnight, we’re in bed. Some nights are easy. Others require patience. But the rhythm holds us.
This is what home abroad looks like now: shared responsibility, shared exhaustion, shared love.
Navigating Life with Determination
There is one chapter of this journey that taught me about myself a lot.
Before my daughter was born, I lost my residence permit. Not because I misplaced it, but because I couldn’t renew it. I lived nearly two years without legal status. My home country was at war. Returning to Sudan, my original home country, wasn’t an option. Egypt, my second home, wasn’t an option either.
Every day carried fear.
I was afraid to walk outside. Afraid of the police. Afraid of being seen. That fear followed me everywhere, and my mother lived with it too.
Eventually, I decided to apply for humanitarian residency.
It wasn’t easy. I had to find a trustworthy lawyer, sign countless documents, and build a strong legal case for my mother, my daughter, and me. The process took eight long months.
When the permit finally came through, it felt like I had won a battle. And I had.
I wasn’t just proud of myself, I was relieved for my mother. I watched fear leave her eyes. For the first time in years, we felt safe. We had dignity. We had ground beneath our feet.
I have come to appreciate that in moments of despair, what we need is a little faith, hope, and resilience to keep going even when we’re terrified.
What I Carry Forward
The most intentional part of my culture I pass on to my daughter is language. I speak to her in Arabic every day. It’s how I soothe her, teach her, love her. We allow her to watch educational content that helps her hear and learn English. She already understands words in both English and Arabic.
Culture will unfold slowly through food, stories, and music. For now, language is the bridge.
If I could offer one piece of advice to another woman considering motherhood abroad, it would be this: don’t do it alone if you don’t have to. Having a trusted family member beside you changes everything, emotionally, practically, and financially.
Motherhood abroad isn’t about doing it all. It’s learning who to lean on, when to pause, and how to step back long enough to restore your strength, so you can return with renewed energy, clarity, and faith to keep going.
Phoenix (pen name) is a Sudanese educator raised in Egypt and currently living abroad. She is a single mother navigating motherhood, expat life, and identity across borders. Phoenix is also a founder of a community centered on meaningful conversations and shared experiences.