Civilian friends will ask the wrong questions.
“Can’t they just come home early?”
“Why don’t you move back in with family while they’re gone?”
Wrong. So wrong. Almost impressively wrong.
But here’s the thing: the fact that they asked at all matters. In a life where you’re expected to white-knuckle your way through separation, orders purgatory, and being a one-person logistics chain, the rare civilian who reaches out is worth gold.
Civilian friends will never get the acronyms right. They’ll never understand why you can’t RSVP to a wedding six months out, or why your living room is full of furniture that doesn’t fit any of the houses you’ve been assigned. They will always say something that makes you want to scream. And yet, they’ll also send the text that lands at exactly the right moment.
Wrong question, right time
The civilian friend will always ask the impossible. “When do they get off work?” as if deployment is just overtime. “Why can’t you just go home while they’re gone?” as if this is a kitchen remodel and you’re waiting for new countertops.
The questions sting because they’re so off-base, but they land at the exact moment you need proof that someone remembers you exist. When your world feels shrunk to duty rosters and countdown apps, the ping of a text, even the wrong text, is a reminder that you’re tethered to a bigger world.
Sometimes the question itself is irrelevant. The point is that they bothered to ask. That someone outside this life thought of you long enough to type something, even if it makes you roll your eyes.
Orders vs. dentist appointments
Your civilian friend thinks waiting for orders is like waiting for a call from the dentist: annoying, but finite.
Meanwhile, you’re living in purgatory with a color-coded spreadsheet tracking six potential zip codes and a column titled “what if we end up in Kansas.” Your lease is about to expire, the school wants an answer, and your spouse’s unit is on its third round of “we should know by Friday.”
Your friend doesn’t get it. But they do get when to show up with a Zoom invite for virtual wine night and ask no questions about what your life is going to look like next week or next year. They know how to distract you with gossip from back home, or text “want Thai food?” at the exact moment you’re wondering if Pop-Tarts count as dinner. They can’t solve PCS limbo, but they can make it feel less lonely.
Convos that never translate
Explain military life to a civilian friend and you’ll lose them by the second acronym. “They’re TDY now, maybe we’ll PCS in spring” and their eyes glaze over. They nod politely, but you can tell the translation isn’t landing.
And sometimes, that’s a relief. You don’t have to narrate every detail. Finally, you get a break from being the explainer. The interpreter, and the one smoothing over the jargon. You can just sit there and be someone’s college roommate again. You can talk trash TV, relive nights when you stayed out until 2 a.m., debate which early-2000s pop star deserved better.
That’s the gift civilian friends give: tethering you back to the version of yourself that exists outside the gate codes and countdowns. They’re not part of this world, and that distance is a kind of freedom.
Showing up, even when it’s clumsy
Civilian friends will always say the wrong thing. They’ll tell you, “I could never do what you do,” when what you want is not admiration, but someone to babysit for two hours. They’ll ask if he can just “call in sick,” as if the chain of command is optional.
But they keep texting. They keep inviting. They keep showing up even when the conversation is mostly vibes and acronyms they’ll never understand.
And that persistence counts. Because military life is full of temporary people. Civilian friends who stick around, despite the moves, the missed birthdays, the cancellations, become proof that some connections aren’t temporary.
Why it matters
Not everyone understands this life. Most never will. But effort is its own kind of fluency.
Civilian friends will text you the most hilariously wrong things. They’ll misunderstand every acronym, mix up every timeline, and say “hopefully soon” like it’s a magic spell. But they’ll also Venmo you wine money when the dishwasher floods mid-deployment. They’ll show up on your doorstep with coffee and no agenda. They’ll keep pulling you back into a world where not everything is defined by the military.
And in the end, that’s what matters: not perfect words, not perfect understanding—just the reminder that you’re still seen, still remembered, still worth showing up for.
Because military life will always be temporary. But the text that lands at the right moment? That’s permanent enough.
