When the Euro-Mom Fantasy Isn’t Your Reality

A recent article in The Cut, “The Start-Up Selling American Parents a Euro-Mom Fantasy,” has been making the rounds in my corner of the internet. I read it with a strange mix of recognition and distance. Recognition because I’ve seen it: the curated, aesthetically filtered version of life abroad, where parenting seems serene, chic, and filled with minimalist wooden toys and freshly baked bread. Distance because that is not our life. That is not the story we are living.

Our family moved abroad not to chase a fantasy, but because we wanted something real—something messier, harder, and more deeply rooted. We left the U.S. with no job transfers, no dual passports, no family connections waiting to welcome us with open arms. We came with kids, suitcases, and a commitment to making it work. Not for Instagram (but follow us on Instagram). Not for vibes. For a new life.

And to be clear: it’s not always romantic.

When I see the Euro-mom fantasy, I get it. The allure is strong. Who wouldn’t want the promise of a simpler, slower-paced life where children play independently in flower-dotted fields while their parents sip coffee in a sunny plaza? But the version that gets sold on social media—often by influencers or startups trying to capitalize on this ideal—is not what living here really looks like for many of us.

Building a life, not living a fantasy

For many American families living abroad, life is full of beauty, yes, but also full of bureaucratic hurdles, cultural misunderstandings, language barriers, and the loneliness that comes from starting over in a place where you have no roots. We have stood in lines at government offices trying to navigate paperwork we barely understand, prayed our children would be welcomed by peers in classrooms where they speak a different language, and spent more nights than we care to admit wondering if we made a mistake.

But we stay. We stay because we believe in building a life here. Not a fantasy, not a photo op, but a life. We stay because we want our kids to grow up bilingual and bicultural, to understand that the world is bigger than what they were born into. We stay because we’ve begun to fall in love with the slow layers of this place: the mercado vendors who now recognize us, the teacher who took extra time with our child, the little traditions that are starting to feel like our own.

We didn’t move here to recreate an American life on European soil. We moved here to participate. To try and belong. And that takes time. It takes humility. It takes a willingness to be uncomfortable, to be the outsider, to mess up and try again. And it doesn’t come with a filter.

There’s an emotional complexity that comes with watching a glossy version of your reality get repackaged and sold. Because sometimes we do cross paths with the “Euro-mom fantasy” crowd. We see the brunches, the influencer pop-ups, the coordinated family outfits. We smile. We chat. But connecting can be difficult when your experiences are so different.

We are often invisible in those narratives. The families who can’t afford to live in the center of town. The ones trying to learn the language by talking with neighbors, not just private tutors. The parents who don't have passive income or backup plans. The ones who came not to escape, but to integrate.

This isn’t about bitterness. It’s about honesty. It’s about carving out space for a more nuanced version of what it means to live abroad. It doesn’t have to just be for the elite or curated few, but for families like ours who are figuring it out day by day, often without a map.

What do you do about it?

We don’t have a perfect answer to the tension this creates. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we find solidarity in unexpected places, such as with other immigrants, with locals who welcome us anyway, or with fellow parents just trying to survive the school drop-off.

What I do know is this: we didn’t move for a dream. We moved for a reality we hoped to shape, slowly and imperfectly. And while that reality doesn’t always photograph well, it is rich and full and deeply meaningful.

So to the other families out there living the “non-fantasy” version of life abroad—hello. I see you. I know what it costs, and I know what it gives. And while it may not make for viral content, it’s worth it. Every day.

Until next time,

Benn (+ Melissa)