Seeking help isn't a sign of weakness. It's a sign of strength.
In the tender and often turbulent passage into parenthood, one in five Australian mothers and one in ten fathers quietly carry the weight of perinatal anxiety and depression — conditions that thrive in silence and stigma. Australia is now expanding a network of free mental health clinics, the Gidget Houses, to meet these parents where they are, including in regional towns and communities where language and culture have long made the path to help harder to find. It is a recognition, overdue but meaningful, that the wellbeing of new parents is not a private struggle but a public responsibility.
- Perinatal anxiety and depression affect hundreds of thousands of Australian parents each year, yet many suffer alone — convinced their pain isn't serious enough, or simply not knowing where to turn.
- For parents from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds, the silence runs deeper: cultural taboos, family separation, and language barriers compound the isolation of early parenthood in an unfamiliar place.
- New Gidget Foundation clinics are opening across the country — from Berry Springs in the Northern Territory to Launceston in Tasmania — offering ten free counselling sessions annually and removing at least the financial obstacle to care.
- Multilingual support through organisations like PANDA is expanding, with resources in forty languages and interpreter services fielding nearly 300 requests in the past year alone.
- The harder challenge now is not building the infrastructure but reaching parents before their silence becomes permanent — shifting a culture that still mistakes asking for help with admitting defeat.
When Chenzi Dong gave birth to her son in Melbourne, she found herself paralysed by guilt and invisible within her own family. As a lawyer accustomed to solving problems, she did what many new parents do: she buried the feeling and kept moving. What she experienced has a name — perinatal anxiety and depression — and it affects roughly one in five Australian women and one in ten fathers. Yet a quarter of new parents in Victoria didn't know how to find professional help, and a third believed their symptoms weren't serious enough to warrant it.
For parents from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds, the barriers run deeper still. Cultural taboos around mental health, the absence of family networks left behind in other countries, and language obstacles can make distress feel like personal failure rather than illness. Sydney mother Cathy Ngo waited until her son turned one before seeking help, held back by her Vietnamese heritage's reluctance to discuss emotions. When she finally did, she found the experience transformative — and now tells other mothers that seeking help is not weakness but strength.
The Australian government has responded by funding the rollout of Gidget Foundation Perinatal Mental Health Centres nationwide. Two new clinics opened this month in Berry Springs and Launceston, with others already operating in Melbourne and Sydney and more planned for outer suburban areas. Each offers ten bulk-billed counselling sessions per year, removing at least the financial barrier to care.
Research from Monash University underscores the particular vulnerability of migrant mothers, who show higher rates of postpartum depression than their Australian-born counterparts and often lack both the local friendships and the partner support that might otherwise sustain them. Organisations like PANDA now offer resources in forty languages and maintain interpreter services, fielding nearly 1,900 calls from culturally diverse parents in the past year alone.
For Dong, the turning point came quietly — sitting in a mothers' group and realising that doubt and worry were universal, not evidence of her own inadequacy. The infrastructure for help is growing. What remains is the more difficult work: reaching parents before silence hardens into isolation, and persuading them that asking for support is not a luxury but a necessity.
Chenzi Dong remembers the moment she knew something was wrong. After giving birth to her son in Melbourne, the sound of him crying would send her body rigid with tension. She felt guilty when he was sick. She felt invisible when her family's gaze never left the baby. As a lawyer trained to solve problems, she found herself unable to solve this one, and so she did what many new parents do: she pushed the feeling down and kept moving.
What Dong experienced has a name and a prevalence that surprises most people. Perinatal anxiety and depression—conditions that strike during pregnancy and the year after birth—affect roughly one in five Australian women and one in ten fathers. Yet the silence around these conditions remains profound. A survey by Gidget Foundation Australia found that a quarter of new parents in Victoria didn't know how to find professional help, and a third believed their symptoms weren't serious enough to warrant it. Among parents from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds, the barriers ran deeper still: cultural taboos against discussing mental health, family separation, language obstacles, and the particular isolation of navigating parenthood without the village that might have existed back home.
The Australian government has begun to address this gap by funding the rollout of Gidget Foundation Perinatal Mental Health Centres—known colloquially as Gidget Houses—across the country. Two new clinics opened this month alone: one in Berry Springs in the Northern Territory, another in Launceston, Tasmania. Earlier in the year, centres opened in Clayton, in Melbourne's southeast, and Fairfield, in Sydney's west. More are planned for Hume and Casey, in Melbourne's outer reaches. Each offers ten bulk-billed psychological counselling sessions per year to expectant and new parents, removing at least the financial barrier to care.
Alyssa Lalor, who directs program delivery at Gidget Foundation Australia, has observed that parents from culturally diverse backgrounds often don't recognize what they're experiencing as a mental health issue at all. Without a family history of diagnosed depression or anxiety, the despair and disconnection can feel like personal failure rather than illness. The cost of that silence is isolation at precisely the moment when connection matters most. Cathy Ngo, a Sydney mother and foundation ambassador, waited until her son turned one before seeking help, delayed by her Vietnamese heritage's cultural reluctance to discuss emotions and by a lack of family support. When she finally did reach out, she found the free services transformative. "Seeking help isn't a sign of weakness," she now tells other mothers. "It's a sign of strength."
Research from Monash University's Jane Fisher reveals the particular vulnerability of migrant mothers. A 2021 study found that women from culturally diverse backgrounds showed higher levels of depression and anxiety in the postpartum period than their Australian-born counterparts. Many had left their own mothers behind. Many came from cultures where childcare was considered women's work, leaving them without the practical and emotional support of partners who saw parenting as outside their role. Some had built careers before motherhood and never developed the local friendship networks that might sustain them through this transition. Fisher suggests that joining new parent groups can help, as can awareness of services like residential early parenting programs—though she notes that migrant women often don't know these services exist, and language barriers make navigation harder still.
Dong's own turning point came through a mothers' group. Sitting with other women at the same life stage, she began to see that there was no single correct way to mother, that doubt and worry were universal rather than signs of her own inadequacy. The perspective shift was quiet but complete. Organizations like PANDA—Perinatal Anxiety and Depression Australia—have worked for years to make support accessible across language barriers, offering resources in forty languages and maintaining a team of skilled interpreters. In the past year alone, nearly 1,900 callers to PANDA identified as culturally diverse, and 281 requested interpreters. The infrastructure for help is expanding. What remains is the harder work: reaching parents before silence calcifies into isolation, and convincing them that asking for support is not a luxury but a necessity.
Citas Notables
At times, I felt desperate. Hearing the baby cry would make me tense up immediately, and I would feel terribly guilty if the baby was sick or uncomfortable.— Chenzi Dong, Melbourne lawyer and new mother
The impact of them not seeking help is more along the lines of feeling isolated, being not connected, not having their village to support them, at a time that is supposed to be the happiest time of their lives.— Alyssa Lalor, director of program delivery at Gidget Foundation Australia
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why do you think so many new parents don't seek help even when they're struggling?
There's a gap between what people experience and what they believe warrants professional care. A third of new parents in the survey thought their symptoms weren't serious enough. There's also deep cultural messaging—in some communities, you simply don't talk about these things. You endure.
And for migrant parents specifically, what makes it harder?
They're often separated from their own mothers, who would have been their primary source of support back home. They're navigating a new country, new systems, sometimes a new language. And if their culture traditionally divides parenting as women's work, they may not have a partner who sees it as shared responsibility.
The clinics are free now. Is that enough to change behavior?
It removes one barrier, but not the shame or the uncertainty about whether what you're feeling is real. That's why the ambassadors—women like Cathy Ngo who've been through it—matter so much. They give permission.
What surprised you most about the research?
That one in five women experience this, and yet it's treated like a private crisis. It's not rare. It's almost ordinary. The isolation is the real injury.
Do you think the expansion of these clinics will actually reach the people who need them most?
Only if they know the clinics exist. Language support helps, but so does word-of-mouth from other mothers. The infrastructure is being built. Now comes the harder part—making sure the message reaches the people sitting alone at home, convinced they're the only ones who feel this way.