On an icy Alaska road, I made my daughter a promise: I’d find her a horse. What we didn’t know was that choosing Bruce would ask more of us than we ever expected, and that loving him would mean choosing him again, and again, and again.
I dug my toes into the sand, arms wrapped around my knees, and the sun beating down on my shoulders. It was an unusually warm day on the Oregon coast. I’d come prepared for rain clouds and overcast skies. Instead, I found three perfect weather days.
A warm mug. An open bible. A toy room for our kids to dismantle while we talked. A hike on a cool evening. An invitation to coffee. Saving me a seat. Adding extra dinner plates to their table. Sharing snacks. Telling stories.
A good friend can change everything.
Deliberately choosing to trust and release any relationship hurts; it can leave wounds that scar but rarely fully heal. I buried my first husband knowing that memories, tears, and loneliness were all I had to carry in my pail in that moment. I walked away from a 30+ year friendship because our values and life choices grew into toxic opposition. Those memories, the good and bad? Into my pail they went.
One thing I believe the military community does better than most is creating space for deep, deep connections. Many of those connections—while profound for a season—fade away after the military tells us our time is up at a duty station and the moving trucks take our belongings to a new address, to a place for new connections.
Still, a handful of those deep connections turn into relationships that last a lifetime. Not many people truly understand what we go through unless they’ve lived it. It is that shared experience that bonds us together.
There is a strange, orderly peace in the “Cardboard Soldiers” that flank our rooms—box upon box, waiting for the next mission. They are protected, taped, and labeled, ready to be transported to a new home. But as I prepare for this 18th move, I find myself wishing someone would wrap me in bubble wrap and gray paper, too. I’m tired of the open tabs in my brain and the crushing weight of anxiety that no one is packing away for me. This is a reflection on the trauma of the final move, the “fragile” feeling of starting over, and the desperate, honest wish to simply be still.
We spend so much of our lives searching for answers about who we’re supposed to become. But what if we’re never meant to be finished? This thoughtful reflection explores growth, change, loss, and the realization that life isn’t about arriving at a destination—it’s about continually becoming.
As a military spouse, life rarely stays still long enough to feel permanent. In this reflective essay, Kaci Curtis explores what it means to remain fluid through constant change, shifting identities, and uncertain futures—and how becoming may matter more than ever truly arriving.
When Anna Larson was six years old, she wanted to be a truck driver. Not because of the truck itself, but because of what it represented: adventure, movement, and a world beyond the horizon. In this thoughtful reflection, she explores the difference between the dreams we name and the deeper longings that shape who we become.
More often than not, though, those ideas end up taking on a life of their own once I finally dedicate myself to being their conduit to a heartbeat. It’s like—not a birth—but a coming-of-age. And every, single time, that journey through puberty, adolescence, and into adulthood for my stories also spells a coming-of-age for me.
Veterans Spouse Project (VSP) is the only nonprofit arts organization in the nation working to give voice to the experiences of military spouses through theatre and creative arts. Learn more about how to share, connect, listen, and create with us in your community.