This is Chapter 2 in our Mighty MilSpouse Retirement Memoir, a monthly series written in real-time by military spouse Lindsay Swoboda. Read Chapter 1: Now What.
I remember the afternoon light pooled across my desk at our home in Virginia when I leaned back in my office chair, taking in my conversation with my counselor. She had just shaken me with her words, and I allowed the reverberations to echo through my mind and body. Sometimes the best I can do is listen and let a message sink in. We had been discussing retirement from the military and how our family was preparing for our next move.
The PCS to Texas would be our last move as an active-duty military family. I was and wasn’t ready for this lifestyle to end. As I unpacked the myriad of emotions rushing through me, the counselor said something along the lines of how we shouldn’t keep going as a military family just because it was what we knew. “Don’t stay for comfort’s sake,” she said.
My eyebrows furrowed when I heard it. What had been comfortable about life as a military family? Not a whole lot. We had weathered five deployments, one of which came with an excruciating reintegration that took us years to recover from. We’d done five back-to-back OCONUS moves that were exhilarating and exhausting. There seemed to be a constant ebb and flow, grief and goodness, struggle and celebration. But as I hung up the call and thought about it more, I had grown accustomed to the expected challenges in our lives. The afternoon shadows deepened toward evening as I shut my laptop.
I sought out my husband, Ryan, to discuss it later that night. In the dimly lit living room, with our two kids nestled in their beds, we leaned our weary heads back into the couch cushions together, my legs draped over his. I explained I was having a lightning bolt moment. “I’m struck by what I know how to do now,” I said. I never thought that in our years of living this military lifestyle, I would adjust so completely to the unknowns we would face, but somehow, I had. What was abnormal: to move constantly, face solo parenting, career grievances, and fluctuations for me, turned into my norm.
“I’m scared about what’s going to happen next,” I said.
“Me too,” he said, and I turned my head quickly to him. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know what I’m doing after this either,” he said. I bristled a little inside. I realized at that moment I wanted him to know. I felt a flash of irritation that he didn’t have a plan for after. As accustomed as I’d grown to military life, I had also grown accustomed to him in uniform. Who was he without it? Who was I? Who were we? We talked about reasons to consider staying in, or even him going reserves.
He told me continuing to align with a role in the military meant a steady paycheck, the same supportive community we’ve grown accustomed to, and familiar challenges in this lifestyle. We each had defined roles and responsibilities. “But…” he trailed off, looking at the ceiling. “But what?” I probed. “Do you remember that old adage? The devil you know,” he paused and looked at me. “…is sometimes easier than the one you don’t.” I finished.
I shouldn’t want him to stay in the Marine Corps simply because that’s what we both knew, and not just for the job’s sake. He shared with me that night that while he knew the next chapter of life would come with fresh challenges, he was ready for it. He might not be prepared to be done, but he was ready. “I have reached the end of how I can grow in the Corps.”
About two years later, I sat in the glow of another living room, this time with a friend acting as trusted counselor. By now, we’d settled into a home in Texas, found our friend groups, and were slowly working through all the requirements leading up to retirement. “The end” was creeping ever closer.
My friend’s family had retired from military life five years before us. Tucked into my couch with my cozy pajamas on, I was working to answer her questions as she leaned into her experience and expertise as a Gallup StrengthsFinder coach. Now, we were discussing career options for me. I talked in circles about what I might be interested in. “I used to dance and teach dance,” I told her. I shared how it felt natural to go back on base and help open up another program for kids. “Or I could find a studio close to my home in town,” I mused.
“Why would you do that?” she asked. I told her that I knew it was something I could bring to the community. It was something I used to be good at and derive a lot of joy from. I knew the hourly rate and potential financial support starting to teach again would bring to our family. But I hesitated and she caught me.
“Do you want to do that?” she asked.
My brows furrowed. She went on, “What I hear you saying, what you are most passionate about currently, is making enough time for your kids and getting to work from home.” I slowly nodded. This was true. The dream I had to go back to dance was a comfortable answer I’d been providing for years to the “career someday” question. And maybe dance would fill that role again someday, but it wasn’t right now.
“No…” I answered, biting my lip. “No, I guess I don’t want to do that right now.” There it was: another lightning bolt. Just as Ryan was seeking to grow in new ways outside of the military, I wanted to seek new career paths also.
Before I left her home, my friend shared a precious quote from Don Clifton, the father of what’s known as “strength psychology.” He said, “What if we studied what was right with people versus what’s wrong with people?”
I am asking that same question in relation to retirement as an active duty military family. There’s nothing wrong with knowing when it is time to be done. When the time comes for a new calling. It’s equally right to study what has been working, and that Ryan and I are seeking ways to grow. We’re setting down what’s become comfortable. We are working toward the end of one story and the start of another.