At this point, waiting on orders has come down to lying to friends and hoping for divine intervention.
The purgatory between “should hear soon” and “nothing yet” is where military life earns its reputation. Hurry up and wait isn’t just a cute saying on a mug at the PX. It’s literally reality for so many of us.
You probably already know the calendar is a prop. Plans are theoretical. Every decision rests on the most fragile word in the English language: maybe.
Waiting on orders can feel like you’re hanging out in limbo with bad Wi-Fi, mismatched chairs, and a clipboard that never seems to have your name on it.
The hope phase
It always starts with a rumor. A passing comment. A cryptic text that says, “Should know by Friday.” No official paperwork, no confirmation. But you open Zillow anyway because you’re a glutton for hope. You know it’s a mistake, but you just can’t help yourself.
Inevitably, by Tuesday, the vision board is in full swing. Commute times calculated. Crime maps reviewed. Every coffee shop, bookstore, and gym within a 20-mile radius is evaluated like it’s a tactical asset.
Pinterest boards multiply. Potential school districts are ranked by test scores and proximity to a Chick-fil-A. The local spouse Facebook group is joined, lurked, and mentally judged.
All the while, you try to remind yourself that orders haven’t been cut. The RFO hasn’t even gone out. You rationalize this by saying you’re doing work that future you will thank you for. (Famous last words if ever they were spoken.)
Time for a refresh spiral
Orders could drop any minute. Any. Minute. Now.
Phone checks spike to medical-emergency levels. Email gets refreshed until the app freezes. Gmail starts asking if you’re human.
Zillow becomes a recreational contact sport as you wait for orders. Houses with wraparound porches, granite countertops, and yards you’ll never mow. Listings get bookmarked, screenshotted, and filed into two categories: Dream Homes and Fine, I Could Make It Work.
The spiral deepens when the “Dream Home” goes pending before the orders even exist. It feels personal.
Enter your lie-to-friends era
You know you’re in for it when the group chat stops asking for updates. The answer has been nothing yet for so long it’s become the military spouse version of “I’m fine.”
Instead, the lies start. “We should know soon.” “Probably late spring.” “After training wraps.”
It’s not malice. It’s survival. There are only so many times you can say “nothing yet” before you start to believe it means “never.” And really, how long does it actually take HRC to decide what the next three years of your life will look like?
Passive-aggressive packing
Still no location, but you know what? Let’s just pack these three boxes anyway. Of course, you won’t go for the essentials. Instead, you pack in the waffle iron, the Christmas mugs, the decorative pillows no one uses. A roll of tape gets yanked and slapped down on the cardboard like a mic drop because you have to do something.
Inevitably, those boxes sit in the hallway for six weeks as silent monuments to the absurdity of military timelines. They collect dust and passive-aggressive glares from anyone who trips over them (which is you, every morning).
The social media mirage
On Instagram, life is calm. The pictures are seasonal. The captions are neutral.
Offline, the fridge calendar is a fever dream of possible dates and tentative moves. Every conversation is an exercise in verbal gymnastics: saying enough to sound informed, but not enough to be wrong when the inevitable pivot happens. And really, are you even asking for much besides clarity? No. No, you are not.
Time to start bargaining
Somewhere between week three and week twelve of limbo, bargaining kicks in. Deals get cut with the universe like you’re negotiating a hostage release. If the orders drop by Friday, I’ll stop trash-talking battalion runs. If they come in before the weekend, I’ll finally organize the garage.
You start convincing yourself that the delay is a blessing. More time to save. Or to purge the linen closet. Even more time to “mentally prepare.”
It’s all a lie, of course. The only thing the extra time does is give you more days to check your email like a slot machine and spiral over Zillow listings you’ll never move into.
Finally, the RFO!
It never comes when you’re ready. It drops on a random Tuesday afternoon, right after you’ve made peace with the idea of dying at your current duty station.
And of course, it’s not to the city you’ve been Zillow-stalking for six months. That would make things far too simple. Instead, you’re suddenly panic-googling a place you’ve only ever heard mentioned on the way to somewhere else. There you are, once again frantically checking neighborhoods, schools, and whether the nearest Target is going to require driving.
The group text lights up: Finally! Then: Where to? You say the name, and everyone tilts their head like they’re trying to place it. The congratulations are sincere. The geography knowledge is not.
Cue immediate amnesia
Two weeks post-move, the agony of waiting is gone. It’s replaced by new problems: lost shipments, bad neighbors, and a base gym that smells like 2009.
But the cycle always restarts. A new rumor. Or a new Zillow tab. Maybe even a new stack of boxes taped shut in an act of quiet defiance.
Military life: 40% logistics, 60% existential dread. And the wait never gets easier, only more familiar.
