Who would have thought that in just three and a half years, what felt like a lifetime would soon end? We have our orders. No more guessing, wishful thinking, and dreaming of the possibilities of what could be. They are in my hands; now it is time to plan for real. Time to move. Time to pack. Time to fly. I have been mentally preparing for this day over the last few months. Slowly, distancing myself from friends and neighbors. As if distancing myself could minimize the time bomb of separation that causes so much damage to my heart each time we leave.
I wrote this in anticipation of orders that were supposed to drop by the end of March, but in true hurry-up-and-wait fashion, it is officially April, and still no orders… That is military life for you.
Why do I feel the need to be distant, cold, perhaps even uncaring when it's time to go? As if my distance now could make hearts feel less sad, less pain, less empty. I try to tell myself not to do it, but it kicks in like an instinct when I'm not vigilant. I've been moving from place to place since I was a kid, and I can't find that healthy balance of long-distance friendships. I am still cheering for everyone I ever had the pleasure of knowing, but I can't seem to bring myself to stay connected other than scrolling social media and seeing the highlights of their lives.
Am I the only one who does this or feels this way? Do you cling to the past and carry that hole left by someone important who's no longer part of your everyday life, or are you normal and just pick up the damn phone and call them to talk about nothing and everything? Helping each other get through life when the kids are young, when it can feel so lonely. Maybe you are not ready for the change and are in denial that you moved, even while sitting in a new living room surrounded by boxes. Change is hard. The sorting, the cleaning, the packing and unpacking, the question of whether this piece of furniture will fit in the new house.
I remember how exciting every move felt when I was young—a chance to reinvent myself, to start fresh, to seek new opportunities, and to meet interesting people. The older I get, the harder it is to start over and make new friends in a new place. I was lucky this time to have met such kind neighbors who have treated me like I have known them all my life. I will miss them dearly when we move. Miss popping over for a chat, having a glass of wine and whining about kids, or getting a surprise delivery of a tasty treat.
I am constantly wondering if the kids will be okay and if they will like the new school, new state, and new house. I've been told kids are more resilient, but move after move wears on you. I know; I was a military brat too. I loved it then, but I am so tired now. After 30+ years of moving, you would think I would be a pro at this. My soul longs for the stability of a single home where my children can grow up and always come back to. I want to plant trees and flowers and actually be there to see them bloom.
Here I am now, in a new home, a new country, a new way of life. Rereading these words that once weighed so heavily on me. We have been in Germany for almost two years now, and we are planning to stay here for another year. I want to say I’ve grown and improved, but the truth is, these words are just as valid now as they were a couple of years ago. As another PCS season approaches, I have another opportunity to remind myself to stay connected with friends. To say yes to their offers of help, to allow myself to feel vulnerable, and maybe then this process will feel a little less lonely. If you are going through a transition, whether you are a military family or not, know that change can be hard. However, you are strong, and you will carry on because that’s just what we do.
This story was inspired by the resilience and quiet courage of children who experience frequent new beginnings. For many military children, moving to a new place often means learning to make new friends again and again. Dandelion is written in honor of those children—and for any child who has ever felt alone.