The PCS season starts earlier than you think.
It usually hits right after the chaos of the holidays. You get the kids back to school and can’t catch your breath—you hit the ground running with preparations, and then you ride the back-and-forth wave(from Jan-June)—the one where you try to keep one foot in the life you’re still living while stepping the other foot into the next chapter.
All while maintaining the dialogue —“when we get to our next post”— before orders even drop. Not because you’re ready. But because the kids need a soft landing. No surprises. No meltdowns.
It’s a plan. Our plan. And it sure as heck doesn’t look normal.
What a life. What a way to live.
It’s like your story is broken into volumes—ya know those beautiful, fabric-bound classics lined up on a shelf with gold writing(they are my favorite because they are elegant with a similar aesthetic — (kind of like humans but each one has a different story.) Each one a different color, reminding me of a different post. Together, they fit, but individually, each represents a different story, a different life you got to lead.
Now it’s June—and it’s been a whirlwind.
In the blink of an eye, all the “lasts” have happened.
The last school performance.
The last dinner at your favorite spot.
The last goodbyes. So many goodbyes.
The last early morning walk with your 5 a.m. mom crew—the girlfriends you somehow always find and always have to leave. The ones you swear are friends for life, even if your relationship survives on WhatsApp memes and virtual coffee dates.
They’re your daily people.
And now they’re gone.
The lasts have been stacking up for weeks and you are fried but not yet done.
The dog we acquired from the dumpster two years ago is at a friend’s house. The kids left for their last day of school at 07:30 this morning and returned to a home full of boxes stacked like the tiny lego village I had to disassemble at 07:45 before the movers snatched it up. Having movers is like a magic show. They move so fast and POOF your home that you made, the moments you created, the experiences you had, the days, the homework, the dinners, the friends you grew to love, the neighbors who would BBQ food for you when your husband worked late… in hours it’s over – and it feels like emotional whiplash.
And the kids. Wow.
As a mom, you don’t even have space to process your own emotions because you’re carrying theirs. I sit here in tears, feeling it through them, for them. You carry that weight, because you must. Look at their big little lives. In a single day, their entire world changes. Everything they know is packed into a shipping container, stored until we arrive at a new place. Until then, it’s life out of a suitcase. This is their 6th move. My oldest is 12. My middle is 10. My youngest is 7. I didn’t move until I was 21.
“Why do we keep moving?”
That question comes often. And you try your best to answer it. You pause. You breathe. You dig deep to find the balance—acknowledgment, warmth, resilience. Because your answer matters. Your attitude sets the tone and you are the emotional scaffolding for these three little beings.
My daughter said to me, “Mom, I guess you’ll be my first friend when we get to our next post.” I replied, “I’m always your first friend. And we’ll do hard things together.” She giggled, leaned her head into me, and whispered, “I’ll miss my friends so much, Momma.”
And it hits. It hurts but you are doing your best and you have designed your life this way and you know, you just know they will get so much out of this. But it’s not easy.
We make them start over. Again and again and again. Not only does my middle child, my daughter have all the normal emotions and feels tethered to this move – she has the additional experience of her educational needs being met and accommodations implemented this year. Meaning she had one solid school year where her needs were being met and man it was a great year for her. Her educational confidence has soared through the roof and she flourished in every way I could have hoped for… this is her 5th school in her little life and this was our first experience with positive conferences. The first ever in her academic career…
— and then — just like that, it’s taken from her.
We rip it away.
The home she finally felt grounded in.
The school where she settled into.
The streets she felt safe on.
The people she called hers.
Gone.
Just like that.
It’s beautifully tragic.
I try to remind myself:
If we hadn’t lived here, we wouldn’t have met these people.
I tell the kids that all the time.
Our hearts wouldn’t have stretched the way they did.
They would’ve grown just as much if we’d chosen a different path. But we didn’t. We chose this life.
And here we are. So I stay glass-half-full. Because that’s how we keep going.
Side note: The boys are eating lunch with the packers like it’s nothing. 5 men they never met, packing up the intimate details of their lives and having pizza. Like it’s normal. This life has taught them to be outgoing, adaptable. And yep—they are.
It’s a beautiful life. But it comes with a heavy weight. The hard.
It’s a lot. It always is.
I have learned it’s okay for it to be a lot.
And we still show up. Every damn time. And we keep doing it.
For the moms—
The emotional architects.
The CEOs of the chaos.
The ones who hold the line and carry every heart through every move.
From the middle of the mess, with love.
A love letter to the life we chose—and all the beauty and heartbreak in it. – A Military Spouse