When I fell in love with a Frenchman who wanted kids as much as I did, I knew there was a distinct possibility that I’d be going through pregnancy on foreign soil. And when we moved to France in 2021, with no intention of leaving anytime soon, my fate seemed all but sealed.
Earlier in 2026, I found out that we were pregnant for the first time. For a year leading up to this moment, I’d set the stage for everything to go as smoothly as possible, ensuring that I was properly registered in France’s national health-insurance program and completing all the preliminary checkups.
Yet, despite my best efforts, nothing could have prepared me for the cultural differences surrounding pregnancy in France. Although I’ve found there’s a lot to love about the French approach, there have also been a handful of times I’ve wished I were back in the US with my family in Southern California, where I’m originally from.
I was expecting to have an OB-GYN, but using midwives is the norm over here
Though midwifery isn’t regulated nationally in the US, it is in France. Here, midwives are required to attend six years of schooling and obtain a master’s degree.
They’re allowed to prescribe medicine and lead childbirth, and I’ve found that most French people with low-risk pregnancies are recommended to them over OB-GYNs for all the steps of pregnancy and delivery.
I’m being treated by three midwives, and I love the way they’re specialized to my different needs. There’s one who performs the sonograms and monthly checkups, one who will get me through the delivery, and one who provides classes to help me prepare.
Plus, they’ll visit you at home to make sure your recovery is on track after the big event. That’s not as common with physicians in the US.
Most of my pregnancy costs are covered by the national health insurance program
Although I haven’t been pregnant while living in the United States, I’ve heard plenty of horror stories about hefty hospital bills — even for Americans who are covered by insurance.
By contrast, France requires all residents to register with the national healthcare system, which can subsidize up to 70% of related charges until the fifth month of pregnancy, and all associated costs from six months onward.
For what’s not covered during the first half, most people have a second insurance called a mutuelle — generally provided by your employer — that fills in the gaps.
Although I don’t have a mutuelle, the appointments I have that aren’t completely covered generally cost me 40 euros or less. What’s more, the French government offers a birth bonus of over 1,000 euros to parents earning below a certain income threshold.
This will more than make up the difference if my husband and I qualify for it.
Despite all these advantages, there are times I wish I were in the US
France has gone above and beyond my expectations in a number of categories, but there’s no denying that I’d trade a lot for a taste of home — literally. No French cornichon can ever live up to the real-deal American pickles I’ve been dreaming of.
I’ve also had to accept that I’m probably not going to get a baby shower while I’m over here, as celebrations like that aren’t part of the local customs. Although French folks have started to embrace things like registering for baby gifts, even that’s not always a given.
And although I definitely don’t feel the need for festivities at every step of the way — I’m not the type to throw a gender-reveal party, for example — I’d appreciate at least some of the pomp and circumstance that feels more customary back home.
More than that, it’s the friends and family I miss the most. No number of video chats will ever measure up to sharing laughs, hugs, and love in the same physical space. I’d give up all the pickles and baby showers in the world just to have that.
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