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Yahoo
02-08-2025
- General
- Yahoo
The 3 phases of becoming ‘another milspouse in the group chat'
No one ever told you, but there really are three phases of becoming a milspouse. You're probably already showing up like this in the group chat. But here's the thing: Even if you don't love the group chat, even if you don't admit it's pinned to the top, we know you're already one of us. Everyone thinks they're different at first. You show up to your first duty station with a carry-on full of ambition and exactly zero intention of becoming 'that spouse.' You've got a career. You don't wear red, white, and blue in the same outfit. You don't even own a Cricut. You're just here to support your person and mind your business. And babe? We get it. We've all mentally subtweeted about the welcome coffee invite (that's pre-phase one in case you're wondering). We've all side-eyed the FRG Facebook group. We've all whispered, 'Please don't let me become that person.' (Plot twist: you might already be her because you're on your way to phase one.) Because the truth is… if you've ever cried in your car after a day care drop-off, rage-cleaned your entire base house at midnight, or sent a panicked text about Tricare and then immediately apologized for it? Yeah. You're one of us. Phase one: 'I don't need other spouses.' This is the era of polite distance. You're not judging anyone. You're just… adjacent. You've got your own friends. You're busy. The spouse scene doesn't feel like your scene. It's too pastel. Too perky. Too themed. And then the deployment orders drop. Suddenly, your civilian friends are like, 'Can he just say no?' and you're wondering how to explain the emotional architecture of separation to someone who thinks 'rear detachment' is a car part. You don't want to need the group chat. But you find yourself scrolling through it at 2 a.m. anyway. Looking for someone—anyone—who knows what it's like to hold down the whole damn fort with a frozen lasagna and a stress rash. Spoiler: they're in there. Muted, maybe. But they're there. Phase Two: 'Fine, I'll go do the thing, but I'm not making friends.' As far as phases go, this one is maybe a little easier? Mixer. Potluck. Unit Day with some egregious name like 'Taco 'Bout a Party!' that makes you want to disappear into the wallpaper. But you go. Begrudgingly. Arms crossed. Exit strategy engaged. And then someone else rolls her eyes at the cupcake contest and you laugh, too hard, too suddenly. Next thing you know, you're talking about PCS horror stories and trading blackout dates like war crimes. You didn't plan to connect. You didn't want to. But something softens. And that's when you feel it: the quiet relief of being understood without translation. Phase Three: The soft launch (a.k.a. 'I can send ridiculous memes and no one will judge me') You've worked through all the other phases, but this one starts with a reaction. A heart emoji. A 'same.' Then someone mentions their partner just headed out for an FTX, and now you're casually dropping a list of survival tips like a seasoned oracle of training exercise chaos. You don't even realize it at first, but now? Now you're in. Suddenly, you're one of the people who knows where to get good wine and which gate guard won't check your ID if you're crying. You've become part of the thing you swore you'd never need. And weirdly? It doesn't suck. Why we resist (and why it makes sense) Here's the thing: most of us showed up to this life with sharp edges and big plans. We weren't trying to be 'different.' We were just trying not to disappear into the miasma of being a military spouse. It's scary to get close to something that might swallow you whole. It's scary to be seen in a role you didn't choose. So we armor up. We keep our distance. We pretend not to care. But military life doesn't ask you to give yourself up. It asks you to let others in. You don't have to bake themed cupcakes or chair a committee or memorize all the acronyms. (Probably should memorize a few of them.) You just have to admit (either on some late night or after a hard day) that it's okay to be held by the weird, warm chaos of this community. Because this life will break you open. And the group chat? That's where we hold the pieces. You don't have to love the group chat But you're already part of it, whether or not you have accepted it. You're allowed to be skeptical. You're allowed to keep your sarcasm (Also, all parts of the phases, too). You're allowed to be a whole, wild, complex person who still doesn't fully understand what your partner does for a living. But don't sell yourself short by pretending you don't need anyone. You do. We all do. You don't have to become someone else to belong. You just have to stop pretending you're the exception. Because if you've ever cried into a load of uniform laundry, prayed there will still be leave left over to go home for the holidays, or sent a vulnerable meme into a thread of half-strangers who made you feel less alone, you're not 'like other milspouses.' You're exactly like us. Welcome to the chat. 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Yahoo
02-08-2025
- Yahoo
PCS Purgatory: The untold chaos of moving overseas with kids, pets, and a whole lot of baggage
They tell how to prepare for moving overseas. They give you a checklist. They tell you what forms you need, how many immunizations your dog needs, and how to ship a car across the ocean (spoiler alert: it's expensive and never on time). But what no one tells you — not your sponsor, not the Facebook group, not even your seasoned milspouse bestie — is what happens in the weird, messy middle. Welcome to PCS purgatory. It's that stretch of time after the movers take every last spoon, sock, and sanity-saving air fryer — and before your plane takes off to your new life overseas. And if you've got kids, pets, or overly sentimental relatives (or all three), prepare yourself. This isn't just a move. This is a multi-week expedition through delayed paperwork, doggy drama, Target runs in four states, and the emotional whiplash of 'final goodbyes' on a rolling loop. Step One: The Purge ('Do We Really Need This?') It starts with the great military cleansing. You swear this PCS will be different. This time, you're not taking the broken lamp. You're not emotionally attached to the 45 mismatched Tupperware lids. You Marie Kondo your life like you're on a Netflix special — until the night before pack-out when you're shoving random junk drawers into bags labeled 'Important Stuff.' Then the movers come. You pretend you're organized. But you're not. No one ever is. And…you will most likely purge again when you unpack at your new home so good luck. Step Two: Bag Lady Era Begins Once your household goods are gone, you enter the Nomad Phase. You're now living out of suitcases packed in a fog of sleep deprivation and false confidence. You told yourself, 'I'll only pack essentials for 30 days.' Translation: your kids have five swimsuits, no pants, and your husband's wearing socks from 2009. At this point, you've also officially become a master of the car trunk puzzle. Every goodbye trip adds a new duffel, memory box, or Costco-sized bag of snacks someone insisted you 'might need on the flight.' Step Three: The Tour de Goodbyes Your PCS route now includes a farewell circuit across multiple states — grandmas, cousins, old duty stations, random friends from AIT who suddenly want to reconnect. You crash on air mattresses and couches. You become a connoisseur of free guest Wi-Fi and lukewarm coffee. Your kids are feral. Your dog is confused. You don't know what time zone you're in, but you've cried at three airports and iHOPS, so the emotion is real (Secret tip: if you ask nicely, the airport check-in agent may give your loved ones passes to go through security and wait with you until the flight boards). Step Four: Financial Free-Fall You thought you budgeted. You did not. The cost of hotels, fast food, airport snacks, last-minute souvenirs, and extra luggage fees (because someone definitely didn't repack that carry-on like they said they would) hits harder than deployment separation pay. And don't mention the pet clearance fee just to get your anxious golden doodle on base overseas. Step Five: You're Still Not There Even when you board that international flight, there's no magical relief. Jet lag, customs, waiting for command sponsorship paperwork, housing holdovers, temporary lodging, and wondering whether your unaccompanied baggage will ever show up — PCS purgatory doesn't end with wheels up. It ends when your kids are enrolled in school, your dog's paperwork finally clears, and you find the box with your coffee maker. And when that day finally comes, you'll exhale. You'll laugh (maybe). You'll start rebuilding a rhythm. And you'll forget just enough chaos to do it all again in 24-36 months. Moral of the Story:Moving overseas isn't just about the logistics. It's an emotional rollercoaster wrapped in bubble wrap and duct tape. It's about the people you say goodbye to, the pieces of yourself you leave behind, and the new adventures you roll into with coffee breath and carry-on anxiety. So if you're in PCS purgatory right now? You're not alone. Keep your head up, your bags light(ish), and your humor intact. This, too, shall pass — probably with a pet in your lap and a toddler screaming about chicken nuggets at 3 a.m. Don't Miss the Best of Mighty Milspouse We Are The Mighty is a celebration of military service, with a mission to entertain, inform, and inspire those who serve and those who support them. We are made by and for current service members, veterans, spouses, family members, and civilians who want to be part of this community. Keep up with the best in military culture and entertainment: subscribe to the We Are The Mighty newsletter. The acronym cheat sheet for milspouses These hacks are 'totes' the smart way to PCS Create a career transition plan: How to work on the move Solve the daily Crossword
