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.
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