This is Chapter 1 in our Mighty MilSpouse Retirement Memoir, a monthly series written in real-time by military spouse Lindsay Swoboda.
Autumn 2003
The wind whips through my hair as I walk across the practice football field. It is my senior year of high school, and one question lingers on everyone’s lips: Now what?
I hear the question in variations. “What will you do next? What will your purpose be? What are your ambitions, and what is your plan for achieving them?”
As I walk the field, my red drill team windbreaker flutters on my arms. I haul my black duffle of pompoms and water bottles. In the front pocket of the duffle is a thin white envelope I retrieved from the mailbox at home before heading to practice. It weighs the whole bag down with anticipation.
The letter is small and insignificant, with a red “WKU” for Western Kentucky University stamped in the upper left-hand corner. I smile and wave at friends in the marching band. A lone tuba whomps, a snare drum ticks, and a pile of fellow red windbreaker girls are stretching in the grass. They look like a flock of cardinals, ponytails blowing up in the wind like plumes.
I wait until I’m at the 30-yard mark and put my bag in the grass. I squat low, shrinking myself, pulling the envelope from my duffle. My fingertips slide under the flap, tearing it. The breeze threatens the paper as I unfold it. I grip it and scan the words.
Congratulations! You’ve been accepted.
The rest of the practice is a happy blur. As I lift my pom-poms over my head, I can feel the rectangular paper pressing into my stomach from within my pocket—one little white slip of paper, packed with relief and a direction for after high school. Go to College. This is it. I have a plan.
Winter 2004
My boyfriend Ryan comes to pick me up in his maroon Monte Carlo. We’re three months from our one-year dating anniversary. As we rumble toward the movie theater, a quiet unease stretches between us. The streetlights are flickering on, and once we park, I unbuckle my seat belt to turn toward him.
“Now what?” I ask. He turns toward me, his eyes firm. “I’ve enlisted in the Marine Corps.” The unease fills the car like a dense fog. Heavy, unrelenting. I remember I nodded at him, glad he had a plan, but wondering where I fit in. Months ago, when I told him I’d been accepted to WKU and that I was going, was this how he felt? Who is leaving whom?
We’ve talked in circles about whether we should stay together and what that might look like. Could we date long-distance for four years? We’re trying to cheer one another on. No matter what happens, we are both feeling the tension of senior year. We are both ready to launch our lives but also scared to leave home.
Along with the question of “Now what?” We face statements from our older family and friends that say, “Now is your time. You are so young, go for it. Go for everything.”
We watch Hildalgo that night, and as Viggo Mortensen races across the Arabian Desert, I grip Ryan’s hand, holding on to the idea of us. I’m excited for us to embark on new adventures, but we’re galloping off in different directions. I can’t see how it will all work out. I don’t know if we will work out.
Spring 2012
Ryan and I stroll across a bridge on USAG Yongsan, Korea. The few cherry trees on base are starting to bloom, sweet pillowy wisps in pink and white. The sky overhead is a brilliant blue, starkly contrasting the base’s muted building tones of various browns and beiges. The bland colors of military life have become a small comfort, something that stays the same as we’ve started to relocate every two years.
Since graduating from high school, Ryan and I have gone through a breakup and reunification. We married in 2008. I graduated with my Bachelor’s from WKU. We have navigated two PCS seasons, a third deployment, a new job change for me, and a training school for him. He’s at eight years of active-duty service. We’re debating another enlistment.
He tells me if he accepts the subsequent enlistment, then by the end of it, we’ll be at 12 years, leaving eight years to the full 20 of retirement from the military. I remember pausing then, looking out across the city of Seoul, and thinking, “This has been okay. More than okay.”
“Do you want to stay in?” I ask. He gives me all the reasons he’s thinking, and I slide my elbow into his, listening. He likes what he’s doing. The pension, health care, the job security—it all matches what he wants to establish for us. I nod. We’re 26 years old, and this posting has opened up opportunities for us to travel the world. I have found my way into work I enjoy with a contractor position on base. We can do this.
“Okay,” I told him. “Let’s go for it.”
Just like that, we made a new plan. We didn’t know what would challenge us next, but we didn’t have a better plan or a bigger dream, so this would suffice. I squeezed him to me as we walked down the stairs off the bridge.
Autumn 2024
I have a moment as I am dishing up our dinner when I think, “Gosh, we should’ve done more today.” Twenty years of service in the United States Marine Corps is a momentous occasion. Yet when I ask Ryan if we should make it a big deal, he motions around the home we recently purchased, the souvenirs from travels sprinkled across the walls, our two kids, and says:
“This, as simple as it is, is what we’ve been working towards all along.”
I inhale and smile at him. “One year to go,” I say, and he nods. That thought fills me with gratitude and fear.
Ryan extended his time from 20 years of service to 21, buying us time to piece together our next steps. The trouble is, we don’t know what those are.
Tonight, as we sit at the table together, I feel familiar trepidation creep up. Now what?
We talk with some friends who are retiring, who have their plans all sorted. They know exactly where they want to return to and settle down. They’re moving to the land they bought years ago to establish their forever home. They made a friend of a friend, and their ideal next job is lined up.
As our forks clink against our dinner plates, I look at Ryan and our two kids: Evelyn, who is 9, and Hunter, who is 4. We don’t have everything lined up, but we do have this. After all we’ve endured and navigated, I am clinging to what we have chosen. There are a lot of unknowns, but we have one another. Maybe that is over-romanticizing things. Maybe that is too simple. But here we sit, one year away from retirement with a significant life change to follow.
We are working to love each other well.
Evelyn tells a joke, and Ryan and I laugh. We are enjoying the little things because they are the big things. Our eyes meet from across the table, and he winks at me. We’ve come a long way. After dinner, we take a saunter around the neighborhood. Ryan and I hold hands as the kids run in front of us. The chapter ahead feels daunting; we don’t have endless years left. We are much older than the seniors in high school we once were, but we are still reaching to build our life together.
Now what?
We don’t have answers, but we’re making space for questions.
Join Lindsay on her journey with a monthly update on Mighty MilSpouse.