In August of 2024, my life changed in a way no mother could ever truly prepare for: I lost custody of my son.
Not because I was abusive. Not because I neglected him. Not because I was a danger to him.
But because I’m a foreign woman, struggling in a broken system that doesn’t speak my language—literally or figuratively.
I’m an American mother, living in Italy, where my one-and-a-half-year-old son was born. I moved here with hope, love, and the intention to build a family. What I walked into was a system that left me isolated, unsupported, and ultimately punished for being vulnerable.
After giving birth in July of 2023, I experienced what so many new mothers do—sleep deprivation, breastfeeding exhaustion, postpartum anxiety, and later postpartum depression. I tried to seek professional help. I begged for support from my husband and his family. I naively assumed my new family would see the pain I was enduring and do everything in their power to help me seek treatment. Instead, I was thrown into the public mental health system in Italy. I was labeled unstable. Not by doctors, but by a legal system that weaponizes mental health instead of supporting it.
Let me be clear: I have never put my child in harm’s way. I have always prioritized his well-being, even when I was falling apart.
But the system here doesn’t care about nuance. It doesn’t care about language barriers, cultural differences, or the deep emotional trauma of postpartum mental illness. It doesn’t care that I have no family here. That I’m alone. That no one in my psychiatric care team speaks English. That my previous attorney barely spoke it either. That until recently, I had to rely on Google Translate—and my ex-husband—to communicate in court and during therapy sessions.
After struggling with my postpartum depression for 10 months, my husband and I agreed I should seek treatment in the U.S., although he forbade me from bringing our son or accompanying me back to the States. The day before my flight was set to depart, my husband blindsided me with an emergency court order to revoke custody. I returned immediately, hoping to fight for my son. Instead, I walked into a legal ambush.
For the first two months I wasn’t allowed to see my son at all. Not even for a minute. Now after 10 months, I see him only a few times a week, for a couple of hours—always under supervision. Sometimes, I’m even forced to share that time with my ex, who remains in control of the narrative while I fight to be seen as a whole, capable human being.
The reality is this: foreign women are systematically silenced in the Italian family court system. We are reduced to stereotypes. Labeled unstable, unfit, hysterical. We’re judged more harshly for our emotions, our vulnerability, our accents. We are scrutinized, while the fathers—especially those who are citizens—are believed by default.
The stigma against mental health here is suffocating. The misogyny is woven into the fabric of the courtrooms. And if you are a foreigner? The uphill battle becomes a mountain. One you have to climb with broken legs and no map.
I’m still climbing.
I’m still in Italy. I’m still under court supervision. I bike nearly 20 kilometers a day just to attend mandatory appointments with social workers and psychiatrists who don’t speak my language. I’m still being treated like I’m guilty of something unspeakable, simply because I needed help—and because I wasn’t born here.
And through it all, my son is growing up without me. He is walking, talking, laughing—without me. He is learning to live without the one person who carried him, birthed him, and loves him beyond measure.
I’m writing this not just for me, but for the countless women like me—foreign mothers who are quietly losing their children to a system that was never built to understand them, much less protect them.
This is the beginning of my story. There is more to tell. But for now, I just want to break the silence. I want other mothers to know that you’re not alone. I see you. I am you.
And I won’t stop fighting until we are heard.
My Journey Back To You 