In military spouse life, there comes a moment when we need to challenge our perspectives, we need to hear through a new lens. The idea of listening through something you look through might seem perplexing, I shared the same skepticism when I first encountered this saying. This notion prompted me to reflect on how, as military spouses, we often undermine our well-being by peering through a cloudy lens.
For nearly two decades, I’ve been fortunate to build profound friendships. These relationships have been a cornerstone in this vibrant military life. These connections have been the linchpin between merely surviving and truly thriving.
After enduring eight PCS moves and countless boxes, I hit a friendship wall. Tearfully, I confided in my husband about yearning for “a Daphne”—that friend who shows up with Starbucks during volunteering events speaks candidly when needed, and whose absence is deeply felt across time zones on difficult days. Despite recognizing the necessity of new friends, I decided against making them. While juggling a challenging doctoral program, building a business, and parenting, I convinced myself that a friendship wall was the solution to shield me from personal grief.
It was an attempt to escape the fear of never finding friends like those from past duty stations. Rather than confronting my grief, I ran from it, labeling it as a “boundary.” Grief, however, does not dissipate; it lingers, its journey nonlinear. Often, we only acknowledge grief in the context of death, overlooking the myriad of losses in a military spouse’s journey—pets, communities, careers, confidence, trust, and friendships. Minimizing grief compounds it, making well-being difficult to obtain.
Recognizing loss as grief is the first step towards recovering from grief. In my formal training, I learned to listen to the heart when working with grievers. In my own case, my heart struggled to trust myself to find new friends, and distorted thoughts clouded my ability to forge connections in my new zip code. The friendship wall was high, and only through recent revelation did I realize my attempt to replace the loss was futile.
Grief teaches us that losses are irreplaceable. Expecting the same experiences at each duty station sets us up for disappointment and compromises mental health.
With grief, a shift in perspective is necessary. My expectation for an instant best friend next door mirrored past experiences but failed to consider the uniqueness of my new situation. My lens needed cleaning—it was cloudy, scratched, and offered an unclear picture.
Owning my grief meant identifying friendship losses on a grief timeline, and it revealed a pattern—I had never truly recovered from the loss of any of my military spouse friendships. This only hindered my own ability to recover.
Military spouse life leaves little time for exploring feelings amidst the chaos of unpacking boxes and worrying about family. The first step to overcoming grief is curiosity. When I became curious, I realized I was simply lonely. Acknowledging this loneliness gave way to the ability to hear through a different lens.