There is no place like home.
Earlier this year, Justin and I talked about the possibility of USAREC letting him know he was entering a PCS season... and, of course, that’s exactly what happened. We spent nearly three and a half years in New York—a lengthy stay, considering the compassionate reassignment that initially brought our family to New York was only meant to be a 12-month guarantee. Yet, as we’ve learned over our years as an active-duty military family, the only constant is change. Every two years or so, we expect to hear the call: time to move. When Justin’s window opened, we carefully selected a few places along the West Coast—The one and only Washington station being our top choice.
Nothing in military life is certain—13 years of being married to a service member has drilled that into me. And it wasn’t without hurdles that Justin eventually received orders back to my home state. With retirement in close range in just four years, this move felt like the most ideal scenario for us. Returning to my roots, buying a house, and settling down for good. We’re preparing for the next chapter, where the military no longer determines where we go next, but instead, we make those choices for ourselves.
But even with all the excitement, there’s a certain weight that comes with leaving a place behind. For all the struggles I had with our time in New York, there are pieces of it we’ve grown attached to. We’ll miss the good parts—the safe spaces we carved out in a community that didn’t always feel safe, emotionally or otherwise. The comfort of Justin’s job being close by, the convenience of school, stores, and the freeway just a short drive away. I’ll miss the road trips, the kids’ friendships, and even the first snowfall of the season—watching it flutter down, even if just a sprinkling, knowing the heavier snow wasn’t far behind.
Our Girl Scout troop holds a special place in my heart. Those girls, those meetings, the shared memories. I know I’ll miss them deeply. And then there are the unexpected friendships I made along the way—the people I never thought would become such an integral part of my life but now feel so hard to leave. For almost four years, the same faces, the same routines, and the same familiarity became our world. I carry a strange sense of guilt for feeling happy about leaving, for feeling ready to move back to Washington.
As with every move, it doesn’t get easier as our children grow and understand more. This was the first time Tatum had ever moved in her entire life. She left behind the only room she’d ever known. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that kids are incredibly resilient. Tatum handled this transition with so much grace. She was genuinely excited about the road trip, excited about Washington, and showed such maturity throughout the whole ordeal.
The older kids had more complex emotions. They knew what they were leaving behind, and they understood the goodbyes would be harder. We exchanged addresses, emails, and final words with friends before we left, and I know that staying connected will help ease the transition. But watching them process the move—seeing both the sadness and hope in their eyes—it struck me how much they’ve grown. Their understanding of what it means to leave, yet also their excitement in the new adventures ahead.
I can’t believe it sometimes—we’re finally going home. After years of waiting, years of wondering when this chapter would come, it’s here. And it feels bittersweet. There’s so much excitement, but it’s tinged with the sadness of closing a chapter that has shaped us in ways we didn’t expect. This time, though, the move feels different. This time, it feels final.
We are not just moving. We are transitioning into a new way of life, a life where the military no longer defines where we go next. We are stepping into a future of permanence, into a home we can grow old in, a place where our children can put down their own roots, where every goodbye is softer because we know, this time, we aren’t the ones who will leave.
Nothing in military life is certain—13 years of being married to a service member has drilled that into me. And it wasn’t without hurdles that Justin eventually received orders back to my home state. With retirement in close range in just four years, this move felt like the most ideal scenario for us. Returning to my roots, buying a house, and settling down for good. We’re preparing for the next chapter, where the military no longer determines where we go next, but instead, we make those choices for ourselves.
But even with all the excitement, there’s a certain weight that comes with leaving a place behind. For all the struggles I had with our time in New York, there are pieces of it we’ve grown attached to. We’ll miss the good parts—the safe spaces we carved out in a community that didn’t always feel safe, emotionally or otherwise. The comfort of Justin’s job being close by, the convenience of school, stores, and the freeway just a short drive away. I’ll miss the road trips, the kids’ friendships, and even the first snowfall of the season—watching it flutter down, even if just a sprinkling, knowing the heavier snow wasn’t far behind.
Our Girl Scout troop holds a special place in my heart. Those girls, those meetings, the shared memories. I know I’ll miss them deeply. And then there are the unexpected friendships I made along the way—the people I never thought would become such an integral part of my life but now feel so hard to leave. For almost four years, the same faces, the same routines, and the same familiarity became our world. I carry a strange sense of guilt for feeling happy about leaving, for feeling ready to move back to Washington.
As with every move, it doesn’t get easier as our children grow and understand more. This was the first time Tatum had ever moved in her entire life. She left behind the only room she’d ever known. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that kids are incredibly resilient. Tatum handled this transition with so much grace. She was genuinely excited about the road trip, excited about Washington, and showed such maturity throughout the whole ordeal.
The older kids had more complex emotions. They knew what they were leaving behind, and they understood the goodbyes would be harder. We exchanged addresses, emails, and final words with friends before we left, and I know that staying connected will help ease the transition. But watching them process the move—seeing both the sadness and hope in their eyes—it struck me how much they’ve grown. Their understanding of what it means to leave, yet also their excitement in the new adventures ahead.
I can’t believe it sometimes—we’re finally going home. After years of waiting, years of wondering when this chapter would come, it’s here. And it feels bittersweet. There’s so much excitement, but it’s tinged with the sadness of closing a chapter that has shaped us in ways we didn’t expect. This time, though, the move feels different. This time, it feels final.
We are not just moving. We are transitioning into a new way of life, a life where the military no longer defines where we go next. We are stepping into a future of permanence, into a home we can grow old in, a place where our children can put down their own roots, where every goodbye is softer because we know, this time, we aren’t the ones who will leave.
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