Steve’s voice crackled across the bad connection. I could barely hear what he was saying, and I pressed the phone harder against my head. I covered my other ear with my hand to drown out the sound of my boisterous teens in the background playing a video game and yelled, 

“No! That’s not what I said!” 

I heard my husband’s voice faintly answering back, less decipherable than the mumbles of the teacher from Charlie Brown, then the line clicked dead.

Frustrated, I shook my phone as if it would make the call magically reappear. No such luck. I looked around the white tiled home where we lived in Germany and tried to envision what was going on where Steve was located in Afghanistan.

Since video chat wasn’t an option where he was deployed, I could only use my imagination. I visualized dusty camo tents and a barren desert landscape, and photos he showed me later let me know I wasn’t too far off the mark.

It was doubtful that, since the call had dropped on his end, I’d be hearing from him anytime soon. Dangit. Communication during this deployment had been a challenge because of his austere location. 

But I had another problem at hand that needed my attention.

One of our teens had been in a minor fender bender, and living overseas added some complications. We usually had all our important paperwork filed in a metal lockbox—military families are nothing if not usually prepared and organized for any contingency— but for some reason, I couldn’t seem to lay my hands on the insurance papers I needed.

Plopping down on the loveseat, hot tears began to push at the corners of my eyes. Ugh. This was such a silly thing to cry over. In the preceding months, we’d gone through the unexpected death of a close military friend which had left us all reeling.

Then I’d been flattened by a bad case of pneumonia for about a month. Now, to my mind, those were events worth shedding tears over, not stupid paperwork.  

Angry at this sign of weakness, I brushed the tears aside and turned to the matter at hand. One I’d need to solve alone. Again. 

Though it was a situation that was resolved easily once I came across the wayward papers, over the coming months parenting solo would continue to be a challenge. What was wrong with me? I’d wonder.

After all, we’d already weathered several long deployments and I’d stopped counting how many training separations and temporary duty assignments we’d muddled through over the previous 20+ years.

But there was a weariness that had attached itself to me with this year-long deployment, one I hadn’t anticipated.

By this point, I was very much an I’ve got this type of military spouse.

But this deployment was different. Our four children were all in their teens and I carried the weight of driver’s ed, dashed teen romances, friend drama, prom, and graduation season alone, not to mention the added layer of missing their dad and their worry over where he was deployed.

I could no longer keep the details of what was going on in the world from them like I’d been able to when they were younger.

We were thousands of miles from extended family.

There were moments when I didn’t feel I could manage another day, but then a friend would call or drop by with cookies or a casserole or the kids and I would take an impromptu day trip to a nearby country (France and Belgium were so close!), and I’d remind myself that I was glad we’d decided to stay put in Germany when the orders for this latest deployment had come down.

I was thankful to live on base, to have access to all the military family support, to be part of the base chapel community, and to have so many people around who truly cared about how we were doing.

But…I was tired.

As the autumn gathered steam and we made plans to fly to Texas to spend the Christmas break with family, I realized another thing I’d be doing alone. College visits.

Our oldest son would graduate before his dad returned, and there were several schools he hoped to visit while we were back in the U.S. Yet one more thing I hadn’t anticipated doing without my husband loomed ahead. I knew I could do it.

That wasn’t the issue. I’d done so many hard things over the years. I’d come to relish my sense of self, my independence, how I could tackle problems head on and solve them myself or figure out where to find needed resources.

But as my dad used to say, the “want to” had left me. 

Jennifer Pasquale, the founder of Pride & Grit, a supportive resource for longtime military spouses, is someone who can relate to this feeling. When I interviewed her for my podcast, Milspouse Matters, she gave voice to what many long-time military spouses feel,  

“A lot of us have been around a long time, and we’ve weathered a lot of hard things in military life. We’re tired. It’s not that we didn’t love being a service family, but we were tired. And I noticed that people didn’t have a space to be tired that was supportive for them. I call it the compounding impact of service.

 

It’s not the second move. The second move is still fun.

 

It’s maybe the twelfth move or the ninth move or it’s the fourth time you had to give up the job you love because you’re following your service member. Sometimes it takes a while for these things to show up.

 

It’s like flipping a switch for a lot of folks. For me, it was like that. I was fine until I wasn’t. I was good with all the changes, and fine with being what one friend calls ‘the trailing spouse.’ I was comfortable with that role…until I wasn’t.”

Now more than ever, there’s so much support for military spouses, both new and “seasoned.”

But at the time of my husband’s last deployment, there weren’t nearly the resources available as there are today. Or if there was, I was too stubborn to admit I needed any of them.

So I did what I always did, stuffed down my frustrations and resentment, forged ahead, figured it out. When we arrived in Texas that Christmas, my Dad offered to come along with us for the long drives to visit colleges and it indeed turned out to be a special time.

Still, in the back of my mind the thought simmered, Steve should be here for this. 

When we returned to Germany after our long trip, we discovered that one of the cars wouldn’t start. Later that week, our other car broke down, too, because, you know, Murphy’s Law.

Getting your vehicle repaired overseas is not typically straightforward, and here we were with both vehicles useless. I was sick again with bronchitis and could barely get out of bed. It was in the midst of figuring out this latest situation that we received a welcome phone call from my husband.

After I explained to him what was going on, he pleaded with me to knock on our neighbor’s door and ask for his expertise in car repair. Though I resisted, I finally relented and admitted I couldn’t do this on my own.

Our neighbor helped our son jumpstart one car and drove him to the auto parts store on base to replace some whatsit or gadget in the other. The solution was actually quite simple, but I’d made it more complicated than necessary by my hardheadedness.

I would like to tell you I became good at seeking out help when I needed it, but that wouldn’t be true. I really did make attempts to be better about it, but my stubbornness was strong.

Thankfully I had some friends who, at times, forced their care and assistance on me, whether I thought I needed it or not. 

One such friend was Karen. She lived a few blocks away from me in base housing, and every couple of weeks during Steve’s last deployment, my phone would ring and she’d announce, 

“Greg’s firing up the margarita machine! Come on over!”

Usually, I’d look around my messy house, at my kids trailing in and out of the door, at the sight of my saggy yoga pants in the streaked bathroom mirror (someone really needed to clean that), and do my best to come up with an excuse about why I couldn’t come right now.

But nope, she usually wouldn’t take no for an answer.

She was even known to ring my doorbell and all but compel me to come over. 

And while the visit was ostensibly for drinks and a chat, I realize now that she recognized when I wasn’t doing well or needed a break from the grind of solo parenting.

While I tried to hide it, my weariness was showing.

And I am so thankful that she noticed. 

My default mode seems to be one where I plow ahead blindly and exhaust myself. I know so many other military spouses who seem to be built this way, too. I will drop everything to reach out and support others, but I’m not so great about being on the receiving end when I need it.

If that’s you, can I remind us both that it’s not a sign of weakness to admit you could use a little help?

And one lesson I learned the hard way over three decades as a military spouse was that giving myself a break, a rest, was absolutely crucial. 

Author and speaker Brené Brown offers so many insights about life that often hit me right in a tender spot. Here’s a good reminder from her, for you and for me: 

“When you judge yourself for needing help, you judge those you are helping. When you attach value to giving help, you attach value to needing help. The danger of tying your self-worth to being a helper is feeling shame when you have to ask for help. Offering help is courageous and compassionate, but so is asking for help.”¹

*This is the 2nd excerpt from Jen’s upcoming book Milspouse Matters: Sharing Strength Through Our Stories, which will be published by W. Brand Publishing in Fall 2023. Used with permission. Learn more about it here. 

*Catch up with the 1st excerpt from Jen McDonald’s upcoming book, Choose Your Own Identity or visit her personal site Here.