I was one week into my life as an Army wife and had lived at Fort Bragg for three days when the Iraq War started. My brand-new husband had to return to work immediately — there would be no honeymoon for us, and the house we had rented wasn’t ready to move into. So, we parked our U-Haul in his friend’s driveway, and I spent those first days of married life on that guy’s couch, watching Colin Powell make the case for invasion on CNN while I wrote thank you notes for our wedding gifts.
“Thank you for the lovely chip and dip bowl. We’ll be sure to use it when we entertain friends!”
Two weeks later, my husband deployed, leaving me young and alone in a military town where absolutely everyone was on edge. Twenty-three years later, I wish I could say my story was unique, but it’s practically universal. I’ve since learned quick weddings and even quicker goodbyes are the military way. I’ve also learned, the hard way, that success in military life only comes with help from a community.
“Thank you for the bread maker. Our home will smell so great with a fresh loaf baking!”
Right now, millions of military families — parents, spouses, children, partners, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins — are refreshing news feeds on phones that never leave their palms, desperate for any kind of news. And the fact that my generation of military spouses has been through this before does not make it even one microscopic bit any easier for them.
That’s the first thing I want to say to military family members right now: no matter what jerks on social media say to you, of course you didn’t “know what you were getting into.” How could you? Are you psychic? And if you are, cash in on that! Go to Vegas or place big bets on Polymarket. Being able to predict the future and being in a military family are two things that really do not go together.
The second thing I want to say is that you cannot do this alone. Write that down. Stick it on your fridge. Tattoo it on the inside of your wrist if you need to.
The thing about military life is that it forces you to do the hardest things you may ever have to do at the exact time you’re least capable of doing them. Sure, you’re brimming with collagen, your knees are still good, and your thyroid and metabolism still work, but you’re also trying to navigate young relationships, small children, and paychecks that run out before the bills do. And then America goes and throws a big scary war on your already-full plate.
Instead of empathy, you get told to cope (Be resilient, Bloom Where You’re Planted, Semper Gumby, Soldier On) at the exact same time you’re living far away from everyone — you know, everyone who might help you cope.
You need your family and all of your old friends, but right now you especially need people who understand what you’re experiencing and who won’t say dumb things to you when you’re already at your most vulnerable. That’s the only way you’re going to get through this.
You have to build that community of support now, no matter how awkward the small talk at those forced fun gatherings feels. It’s OK if your new military friends don’t know what they’re doing, either. It’s absolutely fine for you all to fumble through the uncertainty together. I cherish my friends who learned alongside me. They are my sisters for life.
But you’ll thank me later if you also develop a few been there, done that friends, people who’ve already figured out all the military community hacks and can tell you which number to call when you need something. Fortunately, there are a lot of us still hanging around, and our brains are absolutely packed with cheat codes. Let us help. These are lessons we learned the hard way, after we stubbornly tried to fumble through a cryptic system of acronyms, exhaustion and emotional landmines alone.
“Thank you for the fabulous Egyptian cotton sheets! I’m sure we’ll sleep great on them!”
A few years ago, when my husband and I were packing for our last military move, I found some of those thank you notes I wrote back in March 2003. They were stuffed into envelopes with the recipients’ names on them and bundled up with a rubber band. I had never mailed them. I guess I couldn’t find addresses for those wedding guests and, in the rush of moving into our house on my own and getting through my first deployment alone, I never got it done. It was fine. No one cared. I don’t think anyone even noticed. People who love you are great like that.
But sitting here, 23 years later, on my own couch, watching another war start as my own military spouse journey has ended, I wish I could write thank you notes to the people who got me through all those hard days.
I would say:
Thank you for holding my hand.
Thank you for treating my children like your own.
Thank you for knowing when to show up with a bottle of wine and a carton of ice cream.
Thank you for helping me pack.
Thank you for warning me that I’d be waiting all day if I took my kid to the ER on post on the same day the 82nd had a training jump.
Thank you for the early wake-up call that helped me score the last drop-in childcare slot at the CDC.
Thank you for dog sitting while I was in the hospital.
Thank you for talking me down, and for letting me talk you down.
Thank you for getting me through the hardest days of my life. I truly could not have done it without you.
